


I'll keep him safe from the dark things that wait

by xTarmanderx



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Smut, Geralt experiences Emotions, Geralt grows and learns to apologize in his own way, Geralt is a mix of the show and books and games, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier makes other Witcher friends, Jaskier overcomes his fears, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Small bit of Jealousy, Yennefer is unproblematic here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:40:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 50,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26315068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xTarmanderx/pseuds/xTarmanderx
Summary: Love, just like people, can grow with time. It digs its roots in and spreads, wrapping around the people it snares and tangling their fates together. When Ciri asks Geralt about someone from his past, he has no choice but to start on a journey that leads him down the path of reconciliation. Jaskier doesn't expect to be rescued, least of all by someone who has never wanted him around. As their unexpected friendship starts to grow, something new takes root at the heart of it and surprises them both.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 54
Kudos: 365





	I'll keep him safe from the dark things that wait

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Auddieliz09](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auddieliz09/gifts), [ExtraSteps](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExtraSteps/gifts).



> I cannot thank enough the people who stood by me while I wrote this monstrosity. Autumn, thank you for being my beta reader and for pushing me to continue this story when I wasn't sure what I was doing. Alicia, thank you for demanding more of it. You both made this fic happen.
> 
> Title is from The Amazing Devil's song King. It's fantastic and everyone should listen to it.

“Where’s Jaskier?” 

The question takes Geralt by surprise. He hasn’t thought of the bard in a couple of months, the man further and further from his mind as the time passed. It’s been at least thirteen months since they crossed paths, one winter since Geralt had told Jaskier that he was little more than a nuisance that plagued Geralt’s every waking moment. At first, he’d been weighed down by guilt and a flicker of anger had smoldered under his skin. But the longer he had gone without seeing Jaskier, the easier it became to smother the emotions bubbling inside. He’d perfected hiding everything at a young age. 

“Hm?” He offers a questioning noise in response and the princess sets down her fork, brows knitting together as she stares across the table at him. He pays her no mind and dips his spoon back into the beef stew they’d been eating, wishing she would stop scrutinizing him. He doesn’t want to think of the bard. He’d been the one to walk away on the mountain, finally seeing Geralt for what he was. The monster everyone claimed him to be. Jaskier was better off without him. 

“Jaskier. He told me he used to travel with you…” Ciri begins, drawing Geralt’s surprised look to her. 

“You knew him?” He asks, keeping his expression neutral. 

“He played in our court and he was my tutor in music.” Ciri says, a soft light in her eyes as she speaks of him. “He would tell me stories about you before bedtime. When the armies were closing in, he told me that you would find me. That you would keep me safe.”

The words stirred something in Geralt. He ducked his head to focus on finishing his meal, turning over Ciri’s words in his head. It shouldn’t have been so surprising that Jaskier had gone to check on the princess. He was more surprised that he hadn’t come across the insufferable bard when he’d first traveled to Cintra. Granted, he had spent a good deal of time locked away in a cell, but still. Had Jaskier known that he’d been in a cell? That thought unsettled him more than he’d like to admit. 

“When did you last see him?” He finally asks, pushing the empty bowl aside and turning his gaze to Ciri. 

“The night that the castle was attacked.” Ciri says, gnawing briefly on her lower lip. “But you’ve seen him since, haven’t you? You traveled together.” There’s a plea in her voice that tugs viciously at Geralt’s heart. Ciri’s only been in his life for the past two weeks, but he hates the pain in her voice and would do anything to take it away. 

“No,” he admits quietly. Ciri's expression breaks open, tears flooding her eyes. Geralt doesn’t tell her that he’s tried finding the bard. That after the incident on that cursed mountain, he’d waited months too long before attempting to chase down the bard. He’d underestimated how slippery the man could be. Every time Geralt arrived at a tavern, he was two days behind Jaskier and no one could tell him where the bard was going next. He’d chased the ghost of Jaskier for six months before he’d given up, angry that the bard slipped so easily through his fingers. Furious that Jaskier was running from him. Upset with himself for letting it get so far. Jaskier had been gone from his life for over a year and he’s tried to make peace with that. But faced with the reality that Jaskier could be dead unsettles him greatly. 

“He can’t be dead,” Ciri says fiercely as though she’s arguing against his thoughts. 

“I didn’t see his body.” Geralt replies after a moment. He would have remembered if he’d seen the bard ashen on the floor while he’d been searching for Ciri. A muscle in his jaw ticks and he pushes back from the table, rising to his feet. 

“Where are you going?” Ciri asks, starting to stand. A heavy hand gently pushes her back down and she goes willingly, looking up at him with hopeful eyes. 

“To find a bard.”

-

Jaskier can’t fathom why he’s still alive. He’s of no use to the soldiers, but he can’t seem to get that through their thick skulls. They’re hoping that Ciri’s Witcher will bargain for him or that Jaskier will finally tell them where Geralt has taken the princess. He’d laughed in their faces when they’d mentioned a trade and his ribs still throbbed each time he tried to take a deep breath. This morning is no different from any other. 

A boot knocks into Jaskier’s side and he flinches, opening his eyes to stare at the soldier looking over him. “May I help you?” He rasps, sounding as though he’s swallowed sand and grit. He doesn’t feel much better. He thinks it’s been two days since he last had a drink, but the passage of time has lost all meaning to him. The sun rises and sets and no one is coming to rescue Jaskier. He’s known that since the first day, but that seems like decades ago. 

“Get up,” the soldier barks before delivering another kick to his side. It has him seeing stars and he grimaces, blinking a few times before he can gather his wits about him. 

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he says as he weakly rattles the chains attached to his wrists that bind him to a tree, “but there’s not enough give here-“ He’s silenced with a kick to his gut and he doubles over, blood dribbling from his lips. The chains slacken a moment later and he forces himself onto his feet despite the explosions of pain wracking his body. He’d rather not be dragged across the campsite again. Although that’s better than being dragged behind a horse. His shoulder still sits wrong from that ordeal and he can’t raise it beyond a half-shrug. Even that sends pain lancing through him. 

He’s led across the campsite into a tent where he knows the man in charge is waiting for him. There’s an empty chair sitting in the center of the tent, back facing the entry flap. He’s shoved down into it and bites back a whimper as additional pressure is placed on his injured ankle. It’s not broken, thank the gods, but he knows it is swollen and he needs to tread with care. They’re in the process of packing up the camp and he needs his strength for the long walk ahead of him. With a hiss of pain, he rubs his bloodied mouth against his shoulder and flashes a red grin at the man standing before him. 

“Good to see you again, how have you been?”

“Chatty as ever, I see.” The man murmurs and ice runs down Jaskier’s spine. He doesn’t want to be gagged again. Thankfully, the man doesn’t make a move or present his hand for a cloth. He clasps his hands behind his back and tilts his head down toward Jaskier, peering down at him with a frosted look. “Today is the day where you’ll be telling me where Princess Cirilla was taken,” he says after a beat. 

“I can’t tell you knowledge that I don’t possess.” Jaskier doesn’t have a witty retort this time. Most of those have deserted him between beatings. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth and he slouches down, gazing up at his tormentor. “If what you believe is true and the Witcher has the princess, then they’re long gone.” His voice cracks painfully and the man steps forward, backhanding him hard enough so that he sees stars. More blood spills from his lips and he groans, lifting his chin as a spark of anger ignites in him. “I told you-“ he practically snarls, voice breaking on the final syllable. He splutters and coughs for a moment, wheezing as he tries to gather his breath and fill his lungs again. He starts as the man grips his chin and forces his head back, a wicked glint in his eyes. 

“Monster!” Someone shouts from outside before letting out an anguished scream. It puts the pair in high alert and Jaskier attempts to crane his neck and look back, but pain flares through the base of his skull and nausea floods his stomach. Before he can try to ask what’s going on, the man draws his sword and storms from the tent. Serves them right for camping so close to the bogs. He hopes whatever it is will kill them all quickly. He thinks that he could make peace with his imminent death. He’s lived a good life and he should be no less than four times dead by now. If it hadn’t been for Geralt…

The thought makes his eyes burn and he shifts uncomfortably, flexing the muscle in his jaw. He’s not going to cry, dammit! He doesn’t miss that insufferable, brooding bastard. Not for a single second. Hasn’t missed the quirk of his lips when he’s fighting back a smile. Or the way his eyes soften at the edges when Jaskier’s done something particularly foolish. Nor the scent of pine, leather, and a hint of onion that had clouded the selfish bastard all the time. No, he missed nothing about Geralt. The Witcher made his feelings abundantly clear for the bard and he hates him just as much. Or, really, he hates how much he doesn’t hate Geralt at all. He might actually be a little in love with the brute. Only a little. A smidge, really. Just enough to follow him to the ends of the earth and die protecting him...fuck. 

The tent flap opens behind him and he steels himself, drawing in a shaking breath. “If you’ve returned to torment me more, the answer is the same. Geralt will not be coming for me because he hates me. My voice to him is a filling-less pie and he said it himself last time he saw me, he wants me gone. Killing me would be a blessing for him, I’m quite sure.” He barely whispers the last sentence, a lump forming in his throat. 

“Are you finished yet?” A familiar voice rumbles, making his neck hair prickle. He exhales as if he’s been punched and a heavy hand lands on his injured shoulder, drawing a pained gasp from his lips. The hand departs immediately and he makes another noise, flinching as soon as the desperate sound leaves him. His wrists come free and he brings them around to his lap, turning in his chair as Geralt steps to the side of it. He looks good, Jaskier can’t help but think. 

“What are you doing here?” He asks, swiping a thin trail of blood from the corner of his lips. The man arches a brow at him and Jaskier knows instantly it was a stupid question. Except it wasn’t, not really. Geralt had no reason to come to his aid. 

“Can you walk?” Geralt asks, avoiding the question entirely. 

“Of course I can.” Jaskier snaps, cheeks flush with anger as he gets to his feet. He strides across the tent and grabs his lute from where it’s hanging, strumming bloodied and bruised fingers across the strings. The guards had only taken it to sell it for coin and he’s more than a little grateful that it’s still in decent condition. A few new strings and it will be good as new. He stalks past Geralt from the tent and almost comes to a halt as he sees the slew of bodies littering the campsite. There are bodies ripped apart in an almost animalistic manner and he hides his shudder, stepping gingerly around the intestines of one fallen man. 

“Geralt, what do you think rhymes with buffoon?” He asks as he makes his way through the camp, heading for the trees. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but he needs to escape the stench of death that’s hanging in the air. He strums a melody as he steps over the officer that had abused him and gives him a harsh kick, lips twisting down in a sneer. “I’m going to write a song about these bastards and it will be the best-“ As he takes another step, his legs buckle and he pitches forward. The blackness takes him. 

-

When Jaskier wakes, warmth is traveling up his legs and wrapping around his torso. He lets himself sink into it before the memories come back, startling him into splashing around in the bath. “Dammit, Jaskier!” Geralt snarls at him, making him tense. He goes perfectly still and cranes his neck to find the Witcher soaked now from his chest down, looking peeved. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, wincing as his voice comes out a rough croak. A flask of water is pressed to his shoulder a moment later and he takes it with shaking fingers, greedily drinking from it until Geralt takes it away. “I wasn’t finished,” he whines softly. 

“You’ll make yourself sick.” The other man says, setting the flask down at his side. 

“What do you care?” Jaskier can’t help but mumble. Geralt doesn’t seem to notice. More accurately, he probably doesn’t care. But even as he thinks that, he dismisses it just as quickly. Geralt has rescued him for some reason. Jaskier might not be able to see the bigger picture, but he knows Geralt. There must be a purpose for all of this. 

“Sit up.” Geralt mutters, a bar of soap appearing in hand. Before Jaskier can protest, it's being rubbed across his skin. He lets out a pleased hum and tries to straighten up as requested, but pain dances along his rib cage and he cries out. Tears cling to his lashes as he takes in a breath that rattles his lungs and he tries not to sob. “Fuck.” The familiar swear makes him laugh and it sounds borderline hysterical. He isn’t aware he’s sobbing for a moment. 

“Sit back again.” Geralt sounds uncomfortable and Jaskier wipes hastily at his face, inhaling sharply as he slouches back into the water. The heat is soothing to his aching muscles and he sinks as low as he can, ignoring the frustrated huff of the other man. He can damn well cry and be miserable if he pleases. He doesn’t need Geralt taking care of him, that’s for damn sure. 

“Baboon,” he mutters under his breath. A questioning hum escapes his companion and he sniffles, peeking back. “Baboon rhymes with buffoon.” He says quietly. Geralt doesn’t respond, but he notices that familiar twitch at the corner of his lips. “I think I could write a wonderful tune.”

“Indeed.” The comment startles him and he bites down on his lip, turning back around and releasing another pained hiss as his ribs pull. Surely Geralt had been agreeing that the two words rhymed…

“I didn’t know they’d taken you.” Geralt speaks barely above a whisper and Jaskier can’t detect the emotion hidden there. He doesn’t try to decipher it, too exhausted. 

“I didn’t expect you would.” He mutters, letting his eyes shut as Geralt runs the soap across his shoulders. “I think I’m going to pass out again,” he warns before he does just that. The last thing he remembers is Geralt swearing his name and sinking further.

-

The next time he wakes, he’s in bed and someone is strumming his lute. He cracks his eyes open to find Ciri sitting in a chair beside his bed, holding the instrument across her lap as she plucks at the strings. When she realizes Jaskier is awake, her eyes light up and she scrambles to her feet. “You’re okay!” She chirps, setting his lute down in her chair. 

“Better than ever,” Jaskier grins. He feels like absolute shit, but he doesn’t want to worry her. “Geralt came for you?”

“We ran into each other in the woods. Oh Jas, I was so worried something dreadful had happened!” She flings herself across him and it takes every effort not to cry out in pain. It turns out he doesn’t have to. The door opens not even a second later and Geralt barks at her to leave him be. Like any well-behaved child, she sticks out her tongue and hugs Jaskier again before she slips from the room. He would laugh if he thought it wouldn’t hurt. 

“You didn’t have to dismiss her,” Jaskier murmurs. “Did I pass out again?”

“Last night in the bath,” Geralt answers. He turns and walks from the room, leaving Jaskier dumbfounded. As he starts to settle back under the furs thrown over him, the Witcher returns holding a steaming bowl of food. He doesn’t say anything as he crosses the room, moving Jaskier’s lute so he can take a seat. He waits for the bard to sit up before holding out the bowl like a peace offering. 

“Ah. I can’t say that I remember it.” Jaskier says quietly as he takes the bowl. 

“I see they could not take your voice.” It’s an odd phrase and he risks a glance at the usually stoic man, surprised to find...pride? No, that can’t be right. Jaskier has lost his ability to read Geralt’s looks. 

“As if anything but magic could take that away. They tried, but I charmed them with my songs.” He releases a hollow laugh, fingers trembling hard enough to shake the bowl and slosh broth over the brim of the bowl. It burns him and he hisses, tightening his hold despite his instinct to let go. He can still taste the bite of steel against his lips and hear the threats to carve out his tongue. His appetite is gone, but he lifts the bowl to his mouth and sips anyways. 

“I did not know you were in Cintra when it fell.” Geralt says. Jaskier knows he’s missing a crucial puzzle piece, but he manages a poor attempt at a shrug to play it off. 

“I didn’t want you to know.” He says. They say nothing more yet, somehow, Jaskier thinks they’ve spoken volumes. 

-

Jaskier knows they can’t stay at the cottage for much longer. They’ve spent three days with a lovely family and Geralt is restless. The family insists that they stay as long as they need, a repayment of sorts for the Witcher saving their oldest boy from a drowner, but it’s time to get back on the road. Through some unspoken agreement, Jaskier knows that he’s expected to go with them. He doesn’t mind. If anything, it will allow him a chance to keep an eye on Ciri and make sure Geralt is taking proper care of her. It isn’t like he has anywhere else to go. 

He loads up the saddle bags onto Roach with quiet murmurs of comfort, stroking a hand across her flank as she stamps impatiently. He steps back so Geralt can lift Ciri into the saddle and starts toward the barn door, startling when Geralt grabs him by the shoulder. “Where are you going?” He asks gruffly, brows knitting together. 

“To lead the way back to the road,” Jaskier says hesitantly. Maybe he’d misread everything. Geralt hadn’t specifically asked him to stay. Maybe Jaskier-

“Idiot.” The Witcher grumbles. He hauls him by the collar of his shirt back toward Roach, letting go when he’s pressed up against the saddle. “Up.”

“Yes, Ciri _is_ up there…”

“You daft-“ Geralt breaks off into a string of unintelligible words. Jaskier cautiously lifts one leg with a poorly hidden wince, setting his foot in the stirrups and attempting to lift himself up. Firm hands grip his hips and steady him, guiding him to swing a leg over Roach and settle behind Ciri. 

“I don’t understand…” Jaskier says weakly. Geralt never let him ride Roach in the past. He’d always said that she hated other riders and, despite Jaskier’s best attempts, he hadn’t been deemed worthy. Not only was she now allowing it, but the Witcher encouraging it? He must still be dreaming. 

“Your injuries will only slow us down.” Geralt says, taking the reins. Nothing more is said as he leads Roach from the barn, keeping her at a slow pace. Ciri leans back with a yawn and rubs at her eyes, prompting Jaskier to slip his arms around her. As the princess falls asleep in his arms, Jaskier can’t help but wonder what exactly he’s missed out on. 

-

Setting up camp takes twice as long as usual. Geralt tries to do the heavy lifting, but Jaskier doesn't seem to want to admit that he’s injured. Ciri is of little help herself and Geralt has her clear away sticks and rocks for their bed rolls, noticing regrettably late that they’re one short. He’ll need to purchase a new one at the next town that they pass through. But Jaskier doesn’t comment on it and that...that doesn’t seem quite right. Geralt can’t honestly remember the last thing the bard had said in their journey. No complaints, no poor attempts at song, just silence. It doesn’t sit well with him. 

“Wood,” he grunts as he unpacks the last bag from Roach. 

“For a fire?” Ciri asks, a touch of hope in her voice. 

“Stay here,” he instructs simply as he nods and turns away. He slips through the trees and loops back around quietly, listening for what the pair are doing in his absence. Perhaps the bard will give him a clue as to why he’s so silent. 

“I hope he doesn’t hunt another squirrel for dinner,” Ciri huffs. Jaskier releases a quiet chuckle that’s empty of any real joy and the scent of anxiety drifts toward the Witcher. 

“Has he been taking care of you?”

“He hardly lets me out of his sight.” The scent changes to something more alarming and Geralt’s posture stiffens. 

“Tell me you weren’t there at the camp,” Jaskier pleads softly. 

“Oh, no! That time he left me behind. And when you were resting. Jas, I’ve never seen him so…”

“So what?” Jaskier’s heart begins beating faster. Geralt presses his lips in a fine line, waiting. 

“I think he was scared.” Ciri whispers. “When he came back and you looked no better than a corpse, I think he was afraid of losing you.”

“Geralt isn’t scared of anything.” Jaskier says firmly. He wants to disagree. Ciri was right, Geralt had been terrified. Jaskier’s heartbeat had been so slow… “Least of all of losing me,” the words are a bare whisper that Ciri doesn’t seem to hear. 

“You’re probably right. He is a Witcher.” Ciri sighs. “Do you think you could play us a song tonight? I miss hearing you play.”

“Not tonight.” He waits for some kind of comment to follow and nothing does. Ciri doesn’t seem to understand Jaskier’s silence either. 

“Is it because you’re hurt? Are you tired?”

“My fingers need time to heal. Broken, I think.” There’s a sorrow that lingers in the air and Geralt crinkles his nose. The last time he’d smelled that was when he’d screamed at the bard to leave him alone on the mountain. There had also been a whiff when Jaskier had come to while in the bath, but that was easy to brush aside. 

“I didn’t know, I’m sorry.” Ciri says apologetically. Jaskier hums in response and Geralt hears a shuffle of fabric. 

“Why don’t you tell me all about your escape?” The bard swiftly changes the topic and Ciri launches into a story that Geralt knows. He goes back to the task at hand, gathering more than enough wood for a fire. When his arms are filled, he starts back toward the camp. Ciri is finishing up talking about arriving in the woods where she’d met Geralt and a small silence follows. As Geralt prepares to step through the bushes, Ciri’s voice stops him. 

“How did you get out of Cintra? The castle was breached…” her voice quivers and there’s a spike of fear. 

“I’m alive.” Jaskier reminds softly. 

“But what happened? Why didn’t they kill you?”

“Aren’t you happy to see me alive?” Jaskier asks. Geralt hears the hesitance and the way his voice nearly breaks. 

“You know I am,” Ciri says. “Geralt saved you from the soldiers, didn’t he?”

“I think that’s enough now.” Jaskier’s heartbeat starts to race and Geralt pushes through the bushes, startling the pair. He pretends not to notice the relief thickening in the air and drops the firewood with a grunt. 

“Did you catch anything?” Ciri asks, forgetting Jaskier as she kneels to set up the firewood. Geralt shakes his head and goes to one of their packs, opening it and pulling out a wrapped bit of meat to warm up and a few hunks of bread and cheese. He breaks it apart wordlessly and hands out the food, making sure that Ciri and the bard have plenty. The family they’d stayed with had been kind enough to give them plenty of food for a few days on the road and Geralt will start hunting when he’s confident that Jaskier can watch over Ciri. He doesn’t want to leave them unattended, not when people are surely looking for them. 

“Thank you, Geralt.” Jaskier murmurs. He grunts in response and kneels down, striking the fire up to warm them. 

-

There’s a town half a day’s ride out when they stop and make camp again. Geralt knows the last few weeks have been hard, Ciri has been complaining nonstop about her sores and aches. Jaskier though...the bard remains quiet. Geralt doesn’t know what to say to him, but he knows Jaskier isn’t all right. He hasn’t touched his lute for the entire journey and he’s been suffering nightmares. Ciri sleeps through them but Geralt jerks awake, a panic flooding his senses before he realizes it’s Jaskier and not himself. The bard stifles his sobs against the bed roll Geralt has given him, shaking violently with the effort to keep quiet through the night. It’s taking a toll on him, Geralt can see it in the way his shoulders slump and the dark bruises that have made home under his eyes.

He hunts a rabbit that night and they eat in silence, Ciri going to bed early. Jaskier asks if there are any nearby threats and when Geralt shakes his head, he mutters that he’ll be back and slinks off into the shadows. He doesn’t go far before he exhales roughly and Geralt straightens up, listening intently. “You can do this,” he hears the bard whisper fiercely to himself. Before he can question what he’s talking about, there’s the sound of a string being plucked. Two more follow and there’s a shaky breath that hitches. “Please,” Jaskier begs weakly. 

The sound comes again and Geralt tries to place the discordant noise. Everything about it feels wrong. Judging by the noise of frustration the bard releases, he feels the same way. “Gods damn you,” he snarls. “How the fuck do you expect me to do this?” His palms slaps against the wood of his lute and Geralt frowns. It isn’t like Jaskier to take his frustrations out on his most prized possession. 

Ciri stirs briefly and Geralt stills himself, listening for a change in her breathing. She sighs and snuggles down further into her bedding before going lax again. He almost wishes she would wake up. He has no idea how to handle Jaskier’s current mood and he doesn’t want to face the man when he returns to camp. Jaskier being angry does something funny to him and he hates it. Hates that he doesn’t know how to handle the man that he once considered…

Had they been friends? The road had started off tumultuous at best. He’d sucker punched the bard just to get him to go away and Jaskier had stayed, determined to get his song. And he’d created that cursed tune that haunted Geralt wherever he went. They’d crossed paths for years and despite Geralt’s barbed words and occasional shove, Jaskier had refused to leave. Until the mountain. Until they’d crossed paths with Yennefer and she’d sunk her claws into Geralt as she always did. He loved her as much as he loathed her. But when they’d first met, she had called Jaskier his friend. If she saw it, perhaps it had been true. It likely isn’t anymore. 

He trains his ears back to Jaskier and hears the bard let out another string of curses as he attempts to play a tune. This, Geralt thinks, can be mended. Once his fingers have healed, he will be able to play music again. He’ll go back to filling silences as though nothing were wrong. Ciri will have someone to talk to and Geralt will see them both happy. He hadn’t realized how badly that he’d wanted that. As another curse is sworn and the pitiful attempt at music finally stops, Geralt finds peace. Soon his bard will have healed and he will be happy again. 

-

“Two rooms and two baths,” Geralt tosses a bag of coins to the innkeeper. Jaskier plucks at the sleeve of Geralt’s too-big shirt, one he’s been wearing since his rescue. He doesn’t have the coin for this kind of stay. He can’t pay Geralt back, not when his hands are out of commission and the words stick in his throat. Two keys are passed over the bar and Geralt takes one, sliding the other over to Jaskier. 

“I can’t afford this,” he murmurs faintly. Geralt only grunts, keeping the key extended until Jaskier takes it from him. “I’ll pay you back.” He doesn’t know how he’s going to make the money, but he’ll be sure to find a way. 

“Contracts?” Geralt turns to the innkeeper. Ciri takes Jaskier by the hand, mindful of his swollen and stiff fingers, and leads him to one of the tables in the corner. He sits down heavily beside her and drops his head on top of hers, smiling faintly. 

“Thank you, little lion.” He murmurs. 

“Are you going to try and play tonight?” Ciri asks. A prickling sensation washes over Jaskier, as if he is being watched, and he fights the urge to lift his head. 

“Not tonight. Don’t worry, my dear. I’ll be back in top shape before you know it. Just you wait!” He declares with false cheer. Geralt joins them a moment later and hands a mug to Jaskier wordlessly. It isn’t ale, but instead a honey cider that makes him lick his lips. In the past, he’d tried not to indulge himself until after he’d performed and earned enough coin to cover it after his room expenses. He doesn’t understand why Geralt is trying to make him owe more coin to the Witcher. He has no idea what he’s going to do to earn enough for the room. He doesn’t have any skill sets aside from his music and poetry and that isn’t going to be happening any time soon. He could try and reach out to his family, but he’d left on rocky terms. 

The thought of owing Geralt sours his stomach. He already owes multiple life debts, isn’t that enough? Or does the bastard enjoy seeing Jaskier so uncomfortable, knowing that he can’t pay him back? Gritting his teeth, he sips at the cider and ducks his head. Ciri tries to engage the two in a conversation, but Jaskier doesn’t have any interest in hearing himself talk. She finally gives up after Geralt’s one-word answers start to drive her mad. Dinner carries on in a similar fashion and Jaskier excuses himself as soon as he’s finished, eager to escape the awkwardness.

There’s a warm bath waiting in his room and he strips down, wincing with each movement. His bruises have mostly faded to a mottled brown, a few still green and yellow at the edges. His fingers, on the other hand, are still an ugly shade of red and blue. With a noise of disgust, he grabs a bar of soap from the mantle above the fire and climbs into the water. He doesn’t feel like he needs a bath, not really. He’s managed just fine bathing in cold streams over the last few weeks. He can’t quite lift his arms high enough to wash his hair without pulling uncomfortably at his ribs. The whole thing is a waste of coin. 

As he scrubs the bar against his skin, there is a knock at his door. “Who is it?” He calls back, tensing as his grip tightens on the soap. He’s not going to be taken again, not without a fight. 

“Geralt,” the man replies. 

“Oh. Er...you can come in, but I’m-“ He doesn’t get to finish as the door opens and the man steps through the door, shutting it quickly. “...in the bath,” he finishes under his breath. “Aren’t you supposed to be watching Ci-Fiona?” He corrects himself with haste, praying no one heard his slip. 

“She’s capable of taking a bath on her own.” Geralt says, crossing the room. He leans against the wall and closes his eyes for a moment, expression pinched. Jaskier thinks he might be trying to turn into a statue before- “Can you wash your hair?”

“ _What_ ,” Jaskier chokes as his cheeks flush with color. “I...well...you see…” He flounders for an answer and Geralt steps forward, rolling his sleeves back. His expression is unreadable as he kneels down, plucking the bar of soap from Jaskier’s lax grip. He grabs a pitcher that must have been used to fill the bath and dips it into the water, lifting it above Jaskier’s head. On instinct he closes his eyes, exhaling sharply as it’s poured over him. “You don’t have to-“

“I know.” Geralt cuts him off. Jaskier gives up trying to understand what’s going on and sinks back, groaning as Geralt massages his scalp. They don’t speak again, but this time it’s a comfortable silence that Jaskier doesn’t mind. When he’s clean, Geralt grunts his approval and slips from the room without a word. Jaskier dresses himself and climbs into bed, Geralt’s warm hands consuming his thoughts. He falls into a restless slumber, thinking of the other man. 

Come morning, Jaskier heads downstairs at early dawn to look at the message board in town. He finds work for the day helping a farmer with his chores and as sundown comes close, he trudges his way back to the inn. He’s made enough coin to pay for a plate of warm food and half a night, but the innkeeper tells him that it’s handled. He also offers another job for Jaskier, telling him the town healer needs herbs collected from a nearby lake. It shouldn’t take long and there are no threats, so Jaskier takes a hand drawn map and sends a message to Geralt and Ciri before he leaves again. 

-

Jaskier glances at the crudely drawn map in his left hand and heaves a sigh. The old man had said the east side of the lake, hadn’t he? Jaskier is fairly certain that’s where he’s standing, but the body of water doesn’t look much like a lake. A pond at best. If Jaskier didn’t know any better, he’d think the man a liar. Perhaps his age had simply made him forgetful. With a shake of his head, he takes a step back from the embankment. With the sun sinking in the sky, he needs to head back to the inn. Surely the town healer can wait until morning for the herbs. 

Something reaches up from the water and before he can blink, he’s being dragged into the water. Terror fills him as he writhes against the long-limbed creature, kicking in a desperate attempt to get free. Claws wrap around his upper arms, two different sets, and he’s dragged further down. The edges of his vision blur and his lungs burn, heart throbbing against his rib cage. He doesn’t want to die like this. Not to drowners, not because he was stupid enough to wander into their territory. He hadn’t meant to get lost!

He wants to scream, but there’s not enough air. Not enough time. He doesn’t want to die. He wants to keep living and make sure that Geralt takes care of Ciri. He wants to watch her grow into a fearless warrior like her grandmother and take back her kingdom. He wants to see Geralt...fuck, he wants to be a part of everything. He wants to tell the man the truth and-

Something lifts him by the scruff of his neck and he gaps as his head breaks the surface, spluttering water and coughing as he’s tossed to the banks. He curls his fingers into the grass and drags himself as far as he can, lifting his head to find his rescuer. His eyes first fall on the drowners covering someone, slime oozing from their skin as their long limbs tangle in an attempt to drag their assailant into the murky waters. There’s a flash of silver and one falls away, bleeding and dying with a hoarse cry. Geralt stands in their midst, fury written across his features as he cuts down his enemies. 

“What the hell were you thinking?” Geralt snarls, dispatching the final drowner. He kicks the corpse away and wades to the shoreline, lip curled back. Jaskier doesn’t speak, biting down on his cheek hard enough to draw blood. The Witcher growls and tosses his sword, bending down to lift Jaskier by the collar of his shirt. “For fuck’s sake-“

“I was just trying to help!” Jaskier screams, voice cracking. Geralt’s anger diminishes at once, confusion drawing his brows together. “I was trying to gather these stupid herbs for this stupid healer so that I could get coin for you!”

“What herbs?” Geralt asks, voice portraying a deadly calm. Jaskier names them and a shadow passes over Geralt’s face. “Those do not bloom in this region. Who told you to come here?”

“T-the innkeeper.” Jaskier sniffs, his chin wobbling. “He said it was safe!”

“Why didn’t you think to tell me where you were going? You could have died-“

“ ** _AND WHAT DO YOU CARE?!_ ** ” Jaskier roars, a flurry of sobs escaping him. “I sent a message!” His cry is hoarse. He doesn’t add _again_ because Geralt doesn’t need to know. He hadn’t answered Jaskier’s plea for him because he didn’t want the bard. The thought sends a new wave of sorrow through him and Jaskier crumples, slipping through Geralt’s loose hold. 

“Jaskier…” Geralt kneels down but he wants nothing from the Witcher. He curls in on himself and muffles his cries against his shoulder, pain spiking through him with every shudder. He doesn’t fight as Geralt’s arms slip under him, sinking into his chest with a whimper. “I’ve got you,” the Witcher promises softly. 

_No, you really haven’t._ Jaskier thinks to himself. 

-

Dark has set in by the time Geralt makes it back to town. Jaskier is half-asleep in his arms, one fist loosely clinging to Geralt’s shirt. He doesn’t know how to handle this. A broken Jaskier is not one that he knows. He’s used to laughs and songs to fill the silence, not an awkward man who is no longer self-assured. He knows that Jaskier has been shattered, but he doesn’t know how to fix it. He’d hoped they had been making progress, but this outburst proves him wrong. The scars run deeper than he knows. 

The inn is bright and loud as he approaches. He grits his teeth and moves through the gate, but a voice inside makes him pause. “...Witcher of his is surely dead!” The innkeeper says. A roar of laughter follows and he frowns. 

“Do you think his bed warmer saw him die?” Another speaks. 

“I sent him to die at the hands of the drowners, I sent the Witcher on a wild hunt. By the time he figures it out, it will be too late.” 

“And the little girl?”

“She’ll be thanking us for ridding her of the beast and his mate.” Laughter echoes through the tavern and Geralt glances down at the bard. His forehead is pinched, but his breath is too fast for him to be sleeping. His cuts and scrapes have stopped bleeding, but they need to be cleaned before infection sets in. 

“Unnatural, their kind.” Geralt isn’t surprised to hear the innkeeper say this. Everyone thinks that about Witchers, despite how desperately they are needed. “Two men sharing a bed that way…”

“At least you’ve gotten the scrawny one dead,” another voice says. It snaps the last thread of patience that Geralt has. Snarling, he throws open the door and all noise grinds to a halt. He stalks inside and past the innkeeper and his men, making it to the bottom of the stairs before he turns his head. 

“A warm bath. If you want to keep your head,” he growls before tromping up the stairwell. 

“What’s wrong?” Jaskier mumbles, cracking his eyes open. 

“Nothing.” He pushes open the door to his and Ciri’s room, carrying Jaskier to the bed. 

“What happened to him?” She gets up immediately, her eyes wide as she looks at Geralt. 

“Drowners.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“Are they dead now?” Ciri asks. 

“Geralt took care of it.” Jaskier says, his eyes falling shut again. He takes a ragged breath in and Geralt’s insides squeeze. 

“He’ll be sleeping with us tonight.” Geralt says, barely managing not to growl. Like hell is he letting Jaskier out of his sight until they’ve managed to leave this godforsaken town. “Fiona-“

“I can wait in his room.” Ciri says, as if reading his mind. She’s sharp, he’ll grant her that. Delivering a curt nod, he waits for her to leave before settling his attention back on Jaskier. As gently as he can manage, he guides the bard into sitting up and strips him off his wet shirt. The man releases a whine but doesn’t argue, shivering as Geralt continues to undress him. He tosses the clothes to the side and wraps Jaskier in the furs lining the bed, snapping an order as someone knocks on the door. Two barmaids scurry inside and fill a hot bath and one leaves as soon as she can. The other lingers behind, holding out a small tin for Geralt to take. 

“It’s a salve that my mother makes. It should help if he’s injured…” she says softly. He grunts and takes it, muttering a thanks as she makes her retreat. The door closes and Geralt unscrews the tin, taking a cautious sniff of the contents. It doesn’t smell like poison. He can pick apart the mixture of herbs and decides that it’s safe for the bard, setting it down before turning his attention to Jaskier. 

“Up,” he commands softly as he peels back the furs. Jaskier shivers hard and crawls from the bed, stumbling toward the bath. Geralt catches him by the arm, mindful of the claw marks, and helps him step into the wooden basin. Jaskier doesn’t seem to be fully conscious, slumping down into the water with another shudder. Geralt adjusts him to keep his head up and hums, cupping water to pour over Jaskier’s injuries. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” he murmurs. “You weren’t supposed to be out there.” He was supposed to be safe in the inn while Geralt hunted. Safe and sound with Ciri. To know that Jaskier had tried to leave a message and it hadn’t reached him...what if he had been too late? The thought sends a shiver down his own spine. “It wasn’t your fault,” he adds quietly. 

“Not yours, either.” Jaskier mumbles. He lifts his head and blinks tiredly at Geralt, his eyes wet. “I’m sorry.”

“Hush.” Geralt scoops another handful of water and pours it over Jaskier’s head. 

-

In the morning, Jaskier can’t stop sniffling. He’s wrapped in clothes that hang from his frame awkwardly and he suspects Geralt bought them. Just another debt that he won’t be able to pay off. He’s in a mood this morning and he knows it. Half of his coin had been lost during the scuffle with the drowners and his head, like most of his body, is aching. “I’m dying,” he cries dramatically as he stretches across the bed. Ciri lets out a giggle and pats him on the leg, startling as Geralt opens the door. He brings her a bowl of broth and sits on the side of the bed, offering one to Jaskier. 

“You’re not dying, bard.” He says as he waits for Jaskier to sit up. Sniffling loudly, Jaskier doesn’t say anything as he reaches for the broth. “Can you ride?” He asks quietly. 

“I’m fine. Right as rain,” Jaskier sniffs. “When do we leave?” He knows Geralt doesn’t want to stay another day. He’s not sure what’s upsetting the other man, but he isn’t going to press his luck. 

“Do we have to leave? It’s so lovely here…” Ciri sighs loftily. 

“It smells of pig shit and piss,” Geralt grumbles.

“And where would you have us go?” Jaskier asks quietly. “Geralt, we can't just run without a plan.”

“I have one,” the Witcher replies stiffly. Sensing he won’t get anything else, Jaskier starts to eat. He’s midway through the bowl when some of the tension eases from Geralt’s shoulders and his mouth opens again. “Kaer Morhen.” 

“I’ve heard of it,” Jaskier whispers. “You think it will be safe?”

“Nowhere is safe, Jaskier.”

“I think a keep full of Witchers might do the trick.” He mutters to himself. 

“There are more of you?” Ciri asks, eyes lighting up. “I thought you were the only one!”

“We are dying, but we are not gone.” Geralt answers. Jaskier feels a stab of irritation. Why is Geralt so open with her? It had taken months for the Witcher to say more than a couple of words at a time to Jaskier and Ciri is already getting full sentences? 

“If you pack up, I’ll load Roach as soon as I’m done eating.” Jaskier promises. Geralt rewards him with a look that he cannot read and he lowers his gaze at once. Right. He shouldn’t be talking, Geralt must still be mad from the prior night. But none of that explains why Geralt had treated his wounds after bathing him. 

“I want to help,” Ciri says as she thrusts her chin up. 

“I can teach you.” Jaskier assures, lightly nudging his ankle against her hip. “Roach is a sweet girl.” Geralt lets out a snort at that and Jaskier gives him a sharp look. “She is when she’s not lugging around your bottom all day,” he snarks. The corner of Geralt’s mouth twitches and Jaskier is struck speechless. Gods, is he growing feverish? Geralt can’t be smiling at his joke. He’s dying, isn’t he? They just don’t want to tell him. 

“Finish up.” Geralt says before getting up. He packs their belongings quickly and Jaskier pays him no mind, focusing on finishing his broth. 

-

It’s a hard day of riding. Jaskier can’t seem to stop coughing and sniffling, his lungs feeling as though they’re rattling with each breath. Geralt spends the journey walking alongside Roach, one hand steady against the bard’s lower back. He catches Jaskier twice as he starts to pass out and they stop to rest. Jaskier knows he’s only slowing them down and he’d drowsily offered to be left behind, but Geralt’s withering look had chased the thought from his mind. 

They make camp early in the afternoon, moving off the path to find a nearby stream. Jaskier can’t do much but lean back against a fallen log, watching as Ciri gathers sticks for a fire and Geralt crafts a spear by the water’s edge. He plucks lightly at the blades of grass around him and tips his head back, squinting at the sun poking through the treetops. The weather is cool now and sends a shiver through him. He wishes he was closer to the sun and could give it a hug. Anything to warm him up. 

“How far is this keep?” Ciri asks. 

“A few weeks and a treacherous path away,” Jaskier murmurs. He’s read stories of the dangers traveling to the keep. 

“We’ll make it before winter sets in.” Geralt says. 

“I heard it was haunted.” Ciri says. Geralt makes an irritated noise and Jaskier huffs, slouching further down against the log. “Jas said-“

“I told her it was a great place where Witchers trained to become masters of their craft. I did not say it was haunted,” Jaskier defends. “I also didn’t tell her you were the last of your kind.”

“Hm.” Geralt lifts his head at that and Jaskier must be losing it because he swears the man almost smiles. 

“Will they help take back my home?” Ciri asks softly. 

“We do not involve ourselves in the affairs of mankind,” Geralt answers. 

“Because you’re scared?” Ciri asks. “Like you were last night?”

“What?” Jaskier lifts his head and blinks blearily at the Witcher. The drowners hadn’t scared Geralt. He’s known the man long enough to know that monsters don’t scare him, never have and never will. What else does Geralt have to fear?

“Go find berries,” the man in question grumbles. “But not the black ones.”

“Fine.” With a huff, Ciri stalks from where she’d been setting up the area for a fire and disappears through the bushes. 

“Geralt-“

“No one close by, she’s safe.” The Witcher grunts. 

“I’m very glad to hear that, but that’s not…” Sighing, Jaskier does his best to sit up and focus on the other man. “Why did we leave that town? Why did the innkeeper want me dead?” A muscle in Geralt’s jaw twitches and Jaskier shakily gets to his feet, swaying as he walks to the water’s edge. The man eyes him and he sits on the bank, legs bowed outward and elbows hanging from them. “Geralt.”

“It does not matter. They were not successful.”

“So you _do_ know why.”

“You’re going to scare the fish away.” Geralt says, thrusting the spear into the water. He pulls it back and frees his catch, tossing it to the bank beside Jaskier. “You did not die.”

“Because _you_ saved me. A debt I can once again never repay…” Jaskier murmurs. 

“You’ve never cared about paying me before.” Geralt says, glancing over at him. Again, Jaskier can’t read his expression. 

“Before I considered us friends.” Geralt’s expression goes stiff and Jaskier immediately regrets it. “Companions, if nothing else.” 

“Jaskier-“

“No, no, it’s all right. Once I’m healed, I’ll be gone faster than you can blink. I’ll pay you back every coin that you’ve wasted on me.” Stomach churning, Jaskier gets to his feet. He makes his way back to the log where he’d been sitting and all but collapses next to it, his limbs heavy and head swimming. He doesn’t prop himself up this time, curling on his side to face where he knows there will soon be fire. Shivering, he closes his eyes and tries to shake off the bitter feeling that’s settled within. 

He wakes to a fire burning and the smell of broth wafting through the air. Ciri is soundly sleeping in her bedroll a few feet away, back to the flames, and Jaskier smiles to himself. He pushes up on trembling forearms and the world spins violently around him. Before he can pitch forward, something wraps around his waist and hauls him upright with care. He slouches back against Geralt as the man rights him, uncaring if the close proximity is an issue. “I’m thirsty,” he croaks and by the _gods_ , his voice is horrendous. 

“Drink.” A flask is pressed to his lips and tips back slowly, delivering a slow trickle of water. He weakly pushes it back after he drinks a little and tips his head back toward Geralt. 

“Food?” He asks. The man nods and retrieves a bowl of broth sitting beside him, a small wisp of steam escaping it. A violent shudder wracks his frame and he curls pitifully against the other man, a whimper of pain escaping. 

“What’s wrong?” There’s an edge of alarm in Geralt’s voice and Jaskier must be feverish again. 

“Cold. Everything hurts,” he rasps. The Witcher sets the bowl of broth down and gets up, leaning Jaskier back against a log. He releases a noise of complaint and Geralt shushes him, digging through their packs. He returns a moment later with a thick cloak, draping it across Jaskier’s shoulders. It smells strongly of Geralt and he buries his face against the material, inhaling as deeply as he can. 

“Sit up a moment.” Geralt says. He complies and Geralt slips behind him, thighs bracketing Jaskier as he sits down. He’s guided to lean back against a firm chest and Geralt lifts the bowl of broth, holding it in front of him. 

“Thank you,” he says meekly as he reaches for the spoon. Geralt gently knocks his fingers away and instead lifts his other hand, grasping the spoon and filling it. He brings it to Jaskier’s lips and he swallows, a weak hum escaping him. 

“Slowly,” Geralt instructs. Jaskier nods and allows himself to be spoon fed, too weak to put up any kind of protest. When he’s finished as much as he can stomach, Geralt sets the bowl down again and Jaskier shivers against him. He’s still freezing and he curses the town and the innkeeper and the drowners and the pond and- “Jaskier?” There’s an edge of worry, as thought this isn’t the first time Geralt’s said his name. 

“Sleepy,” he mumbles. The Witcher guides him forward and gets up without a word. Jaskier watches as he prepares his bedroll closer to the fire and frowns. Before he can process the words to ask, Geralt is helping him onto his feet and moving him to the newly made bed. He’s completely baffled when Geralt lays down beside him, turning Jaskier so his front is against Geralt’s chest and his back is to the fire. “I’ve gone mad.” He whispers, dazed. 

“Not mad.” Geralt sounds amused again and Jaskier cannot understand what’s happening. It doesn’t really matter. The other man is warm and inviting and Jaskier wants to be held. “You don’t owe me,” he adds softly as Jaskier begins to drift. “Without you-“ Whatever he says is lost as unconsciousness claims Jaskier once again. 

-

Geralt resists the urge to open his eyes, a frown settling in. However, the other person is refusing to back down from this and he knows he should give in. He cracks one eye open to stare across the ashes of the fire at Ciri, raising a brow. She mirrors his expression perfectly, tilting her head slightly in acknowledgement. He knows exactly what she’s referring to and he wishes he didn’t. 

Jaskier is still sleeping soundly against his chest, breathing evenly and deeply in his sleep. He’d abandoned Geralt’s cloak at some point in the night, but he’d never made any attempt to leave. Geralt couldn’t believe he’d fallen asleep. One minute he’d been stroking a hand down Jaskier’s spine, the next he was out like a light. Ciri’s unwavering stare had woken him and it was well past dawn. 

“What?” He finally hisses. 

“Have you two finally stopped fighting?” Ciri asks. 

“We haven’t been-“

“Then why else has he been so quiet around you? Jas is never quiet. And he _loves_ playing music for me. Is he...is he okay?” Ciri nibbles on her lip and Geralt’s struck with a loss for words. He hadn’t realized that she’d seen it, too. 

“I don’t know,” he answers after a beat. It’s the best he can give her. Honesty does not always make things better, but he doesn’t want to beat around the bush. Ciri deserves the truth. 

“I know that’s why we left,” she says softly. 

“And why is that?”

“Because you care about each other.” Ciri says plainly. Geralt hums in response, as noncommittal as he can be. He doesn’t know what to say to that. She’s not wrong. He does care for Jaskier and that terrifies him. He has enemies that would gladly take advantage of his weakness for the bard. Not to mention the fact that the young man doesn’t feel the same. How can Geralt blame him? He’d done everything in his power to keep Jaskier out of harm’s way and had pushed him away. 

“Is he going to stay with us?” Ciri asks. Geralt wants to say yes. That he’ll make sure Jaskier never leaves his sight for longer than strictly necessary. But that is a foolish thought. Jaskier will leave once he’s healed and Geralt won’t ask him to stay. He’s never been a selfish man and he won’t start now. 

Before he can answer, the bard stirs in his sleep. He rubs his face against Geralt’s chest, further mussing up his hair, and stretches like a cat along his body. “Mm,” he released a pleased little hum before his eyes pop open. “O-oh. Geralt,” he swallows hard and the scent of anxiety makes Geralt’s nostrils flare. 

“Seems like you both needed sleep.” Ciri says. “I’m going to find more berries for breakfast.” She fixes Geralt with a stern look as she climbs to her feet. Grabbing her cloak, she fastens it around her neck and makes her way into the trees. Geralt doesn’t know what they need privacy for, but he’s disappointed as Jaskier retreats. The bard puts a few inches of space between them, cheeks flushed and mouth open as he stammers an apology. 

“You needed the sleep,” Geralt huffs. Jaskier’s expression drops and he wants to kick himself. “It was…” He pauses, searching carefully for the right word. Something that won’t give away too much and won’t drive a new wedge between them. “Nice.”

“You didn’t have to stay,” Jaskier practically whispers as his eyes widen at the corners. 

“I did.” 

“I...thank you. I’m feeling much better now.” Jaskier swallows hard, licking his lips. Geralt tears his gaze away from his warm pink tongue and nods. 

“Fever broke. Next town is a day’s ride. There may be a healer.” He says. 

“As long as it isn’t a sorceress.” Jaskier grins. Geralt’s lips twitch faintly. 

-

“For fuck’s sake!” Jaskier cries as he drops his belongings onto the bed. Geralt rewards him with a withering look and the bard points sternly at him. “No, Geralt. I’m not going to see her.” He says firmly. 

“She can heal you-“

“For a price that I am not willing to pay!” He throws up his hands and immediately regrets it as his ribs throb. “Geralt, it’s horrid enough that you allowed Ciri to be with her unsupervised-"

“I trust her.” The Witcher counters, frowning deeply. “She saved your life once-“

“And sometimes I wish she hadn’t! Because then you two wouldn’t be tied together by fate or destiny or a fucking wish!” He paces the length of the room and whirls around on his heel. “I won’t do it. We can find someone else.”

“The lives of many mages were lost at Sodden Hill. We will not likely come across anyone else-“

“And what if she kills me instead? Decides that-“ Jaskier turns abruptly and his head spins, sending him stumbling. He reaches out to the wall for support and his hand meets a firm chest. 

“Jaskier. We will leave as soon as you are well.” Geralt promises. 

“Swear it,” Jaskier whispers. His fingers curl in the fabric of Geralt’s shirt and a shiver wracks his body. “Swear that we will not stay longer than we must.”

“I swear it.” Geralt’s fingers squeeze around his wrist and he lets out a shaky breath. 

“I can’t afford to pay her.” Jaskier admits, sinking against the other man. He hides his face there, cursing Yennefer for appearing at a most inconvenient time. Not that he’s seen her yet. Geralt had left him at the inn to get settled with a warm meal and taken Ciri to go find a healer. Finding out that Yennefer was there instead...it soured his stomach. 

“I will pay,” Geralt assures quietly. “Whatever she asks.”

“I don’t want you indebted to that...that _woman_.” Jaskier frowns, unable to find a better insult. “Why did you leave Ciri with her?”

“Because Ciri asked about her. When we first met in the woods.” It’s not a real answer, but it’s all that Geralt gives him. Jaskier nods and forces himself to step back, immediately regretting the loss of body warmth from the Witcher. “I will not leave you this time.”

“If you do, I’ll never forgive you.” Jaskier mutters, taking a deep breath. “Fine. Lead the way to the wicked witch.”

“Jaskier.”

“I don’t have to pretend to be happy about any of this,” he grumbles. 

-

If the bard wasn’t so sick and weak, Geralt might be more frustrated than he currently is. He knows the bard has immense disdain for the sorceress, but she saved his life once. Geralt had been indebted to her from that moment. Even without the admittance, she had known Jaskier was a friend he cared deeply for and had seen right through his walls. Jaskier attempting to refuse treatment was foolish. Had he been persistent, Geralt would have dragged him kicking and screaming to see the sorceress. 

The walk to Yennefer’s cottage is short, though Jaskier drags his feet the entire time and Geralt snaps twice for him to pick up his feet. The scent of growing anxiety and frustration is only adding to his own. He doesn’t understand the sorrow that’s beginning to cloud the bard. When they’ve finally arrived, Geralt delivers a sharp knock and pushes the door open. Ciri and Yennefer are sitting at a table in the middle of the room and the sorceress gets to her feet at once, lifting a brow. 

“He wasn’t kidding when he said you were in bad shape. You look like shit,” she tells the bard plainly. Geralt waits for him to bristle and fire back at insult, but his shoulders slump in quiet defeat. 

“You look….well.” He says. Yennefer’s eyes widen comically and she throws Geralt a look that must mirror his own surprise. 

“Did you happen to fall and hit your head?” She asks, stepping toward him with outstretched fingers. He flinches back subtly and Geralt steps forward, his spine stiffening. “I’m...I wasn’t going to hurt you.” She sniffs in disdain. 

“Oh...right.” Jaskier shifts uncomfortably and Yennefer rolls her eyes.

“Go and sit on the bed, bard. This won’t take long.” She flicks her fingers toward the bed and he goes willingly, exhaustion emanating from him. The scent of sickness still lingers and Geralt steps forward, looking to Yennefer. 

“I will pay whatever it takes.” He murmurs quietly, knowing Jaskier won’t hear him. 

“There is a pack of wargs that is attacking merchants on the outskirts of town. Take care of them so that I can get my supplies delivered and that will be payment enough.” She says, turning and walking toward Jaskier. “This will not be entirely comfortable for you. Mending bones can be a nasty business,” she warns before touching her fingers to his forehead. A shudder ripples through him and he coughs, the sound tugging at Geralt’s chest. He watches in stoic silence as she heals his companion, keeping Ciri in the corner of his gaze. She’s enraptured by the display of magic, her mouth hanging open as she watches Yennefer work. 

Finally, the sorceress takes a step back and relief clouds Jaskier. “There. A night of rest and you will feel good as new.” She proclaims, glancing back over her shoulder at Geralt. “You’d better hold up your end of the bargain.”

“Geralt, no!” Jaskier’s look of utter betrayal claws at him and he sighs quietly. 

“A pack of wargs is nothing, bard. Your precious Witcher will be done before the sun fully sets and you can carry on your merry path.” Yennefer rolls her eyes at Geralt. “Is he always this insufferable?”

“You’re...rude!” Jaskier fires back. Geralt hides his concern and straightens up, nodding to Yennefer. 

“I’ll return when it is done.” He says simply. She crosses the room and stands before him, brushing her fingers along his chest. The scent of lilac and gooseberries tickles his nose and he starts to speak, but her mouth on his silences him quickly. She pulls back just as quickly, amusement in her gaze as her fingers fall away. 

“I look forward to seeing you tonight, dear Witcher.”

“Can we go and have supper now?” Ciri asks, a peculiar edge to her voice. Geralt spares her a quick glance, surprised to find a look of anger directed at the sorceress. When he looks to the bard, he’s pale and sickly looking. 

“Jaskier?” His fingers twitch slightly at his side as the bard gets to his feet, sucking in a deep breath. He stalks from the cottage without a word and Ciri trails after him, scowling as she does so. “Fuck,” he mutters. 

-

Jaskier wants to scream. The sound is locked behind his teeth, buried deep in his throat. He’s managed not to cry just yet, but his resolve is rapidly crumbling. Geralt has gone off to hunt, leaving him and Ciri to their rooms at the inn. With Ciri gone off to bed, Jaskier has nothing to occupy him but his thoughts and the sounds of customers in the tavern below. He paces the length of his room, feeling like some sort of caged animal, and finally stops at his pack. He reaches for his lute and carefully plucks it free, going to sit down on the edge of his bed. 

He hasn’t touched it since he’d first realized he couldn’t play until his fingers healed. But now that they’re better...he shakes his head and cautiously strums the strings. His fingers are stiff and the sound comes out all wrong. He’s been out of practice for over a month and, though his fingers have been fixed, he is lacking his usual strength and dexterity. He plucks at one of the strings and gazes across the room at the fire, feeling his eyes begin to burn. 

_“She’s always bad news_

_It’s always lose, lose_

_So tell me love, tell me love_

_How is that just?”_

He croons, voice trembling as the words fall from his tongue. A tremor wracks his body with the effort to hold back a sob and he clenches his jaw, sniffling as he plays the right chords. His fingers are slowly getting used to playing again, falling into familiar patterns, and he knows it’s because he’s played this tune dozens of times over the last year. 

_“I am weak my love,_

_And I am wanting…”_

His voice breaks again and the first sob comes free. He tries to stifle it, but he can’t breathe and another comes tumbling out. One after the other until he’s bent over his lute, clutching at it for dear life as he laments his loss. Geralt had never been his. But he’d thought that perhaps, after a little time, they would grow close again. And here was the witch, ruining that with her sweet kiss. She takes Geralt so easily, a man that has never belonged to Jaskier despite his deepest desire. As soon as the wargs are dead, Geralt will be warming her bed and Jaskier will be alone. He’ll be alone and empty and longing and he cannot do this. 

“Damn her,” he sniffs as he tries to calm back down. His heart feels like a million tiny shards of glass in his chest, threatening to rip him apart with each ragged breath. “To hell with both of them.” He whispers weakly, not meaning a word of it. Well, perhaps Yennefer. She may have healed him physically, but she’s still managed to rip his heart from his chest and crush it in the palm of her hand. He doesn’t want any part in their story together. 

Everything in him feels broken and he stares down at his lute, fingers clenching around the neck of the instrument. Part of him wants to toss it into the fire and be done with it. But he knows that he can’t destroy something so exquisitely made. It deserves a better life than that. The very idea makes him perk up a little, an idea beginning to form. He may not want to play for coin at the moment, but that doesn’t mean he can’t still earn some. 

“Julian,” he murmurs to himself. It’s been far too long since he’s used that name, but he needs to start getting used to it. 

-

Geralt doesn’t know how long he’s been standing in the middle of the stables. He’d come to feed Roach a couple of carrots before starting off to find the pack of wargs when he’d heard Jaskier plucking at his lute. He has no idea why the bard is sobbing, but it breaks him all the same and he wants nothing more than to go back upstairs and find what troubles him. But he has a promise to keep and so he disembarks on his journey, sword in hand as he walks along the outer edge of the town. 

The wargs take a few hours to dispatch. They fan out and go into hiding once he picks off the first couple and it’s a pain in the ass hunting them in the dark. He ends up with his fair share of cuts and scrapes, but he finally manages to kill the last warg. He drags its corpse away from the path that leads to town, hoping that whatever comes to feast on it won’t attack any of the townspeople. As he cleans his sword on the grass and begins to sheathe it, he hears a wagon beginning down the path. Shaking his head, he steps onto the path and nods stiffly as the driver passes him by. He continues to walk, making it a few yards before a noise makes him go white. 

The clumsy strumming of a lute makes him turn on his heel. His eyes fixate on the passenger in the back of the wagon, a young man who reeks of piss and ale. Before he can stop himself, he’s striding after the wagon and leaping onto the back of it. The man startles and brandishes the lute as a weapon, holding it between himself and Geralt. “W-White Wolf!” He cries out. With a sneer, Geralt grabs the collar of his shirt and hauls him upright.

“Where did you get the lute?” He growls out, shifting as the wagon comes to a halt. 

“I-I bought it!” The man exclaims. He snarls and the other goes pale, shaking in Geralt’s grasp. “I s-swear it on my life!”

“Who did you buy it from?” He demands, the skin on the back of his neck prickling. He drops his gaze to the lute and confirms his own suspicions. There’s a faint scratch in the wood where the neck connects with the body, one that nearly resembles a _J_ if he tilts his head. 

“Name was-was Julian.” The man swallows audibly and Geralt’s hold loosens. 

“You are certain?” He asks. It doesn’t make any sense. Jaskier does not go by his given name, he has only offered it in a handful of occasions. Selling his lute is out of the question. “If he is dead, I will find you and make your death long and filled with pain.” He promises through his teeth before releasing the man and jumping from the cart. He casts a withering glance at the driver and man holding the lute before he begins to race down the path. If Jaskier is in trouble, Geralt has to be quick. 

He makes it back to the inn as fast as he can, barging through the door and taking the stairs two at a time. Throwing open Jaskier’s door, he takes a step inside and-

“Geralt?” The man is lowered halfway into the bath, cheeks flush with color. 

“You’re...fine.” He says lamely, scanning the room for any signs of a threat. 

“You nearly stopped my heart, but yes.” Jaskier frowns at him as he fully sits in the bath. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I thought…” Geralt finds himself at a loss for words as he sees several bags of coins sitting on Jaskier’s bed. “It was true.” He mutters to himself. Jaskier follows his gaze and a scent of humiliation fills the air. 

“I told you that I would pay you back,” Jaskier says meekly. 

“You sold your lute.” Geralt says quietly. Why? He loves music and making a fool of himself and a nuisance more than anything. Why would he sell his most prized possession?

“Oh.” Jaskier says, cheeks heating up. “ _Oh._ That’s why you thought…” he skims his fingers across the top of the water. “I sold it to him, yes.”

“Why?” 

“Because I no longer wish to play it.” Jaskier says simply. Geralt practically chokes on the honesty. He doesn’t understand. 

“Jaskier-“

“Come, get undressed.” The bard offers a humorless smile as he climbs from the bath. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Can’t do with you getting infected wounds.” He says, picking up a towel from the ground and wrapping it around his waist. 

“The man said you called yourself Julian.” Geralt murmurs. 

“Well, since I am no longer going to be a bard, I thought perhaps losing my name would be a good start. Of course, you can call me whatever you like. But to everyone else, I am Julian. Jaskier no longer exists.” He replies airily, faking nonchalance that makes Geralt’s insides twist. “Hurry up and strip down, the bath won’t stay hot forever.”

“You were using it.” Geralt says. 

“And now I am not. Strip down, Geralt of Rivia. Let the master of bathing you do his work.” Clamping his mouth shut, Geralt does as told. He steps into the bath and Jaskier’s fingertips flutter briefly over his shoulder as he guides him to sit. “We must get you all cleaned up before you grace Yennefer with your presence.” Geralt does his best not to wrinkle his nose at the jealousy oozing from his friend. It makes something click into place and he reaches up, taking Jaskier by the wrist. 

“I am not going to her,” he says softly. The bard’s - no, his _friend’s_ \- eyes widen at that and he exhales shakily. 

“No? Not tonight?” He asks weakly. 

“I will send word to her in the morning and we will be on the road.” Geralt promises. He doesn’t know why Jaskier is so relieved by that, but it eases some of the tension in the room and he can breathe again. “I am...glad you are okay.” 

“Did you hit your head?” Jaskier’s fingers begin to press against the back of his neck and he swats them away with a growl. 

“Dammit, Jaskier.”

“All right, I just thought I should ask. You’re behaving strangely this evening.” Jaskier mutters. As if _Geralt_ is the one who has lost his marbles. He’s not the one who sold his prized possession and decided to no longer keep true to his identity and his passion. Jaskier could not give up being a bard as Geralt could not give up being a Witcher. It was written in their blood. Whatever it took, he would make Jaskier see that. 

-

Ciri has been mad at him all morning and Jaskier wants to cry. He’s tried to win her over with stories and jokes, but she turns up her nose with an angry little huff and goes on ignoring him. He’s miserable when they stop for lunch and the princess stalks off, announcing she’s going to find food before she goes. “Geralt,” he whines as the Witcher strokes Roach’s neck. 

“I am not involved,” the other man says with a grunt. 

“I don’t understand what I’ve done!” Jaskier throws up his hands and paces in a small circle. The morning had been like any other. They’d packed their bags and left the inn, just as they always did. Ciri had bid him good morning, but her mood had soured as they’d packed their saddlebags. “Did I say something unkind to her?”

“Ask her.” Geralt suggests and _that_ makes Jaskier stumble in his tracks. 

“Are you _quite_ sure you were not struck in the head last night?” He asks, gesturing wildly. “You’ve been acting…” he doesn’t know how to put it into words. Geralt is talking and giving advice and seems _concerned_ and it all feels horribly wrong. He doesn’t like this one bit. Except maybe he does. It might have melted his insides when Geralt had burst into his room, looking every bit the fierce warrior that he is. And to know he had been worried something had happened to Jaskier…

Something is shifting between them. He would almost call Geralt’s actions apologetic if he didn’t know any better. The man had never outwardly said the words and, at this point, Jaskier doubts that he ever will. He’d still like to hear them, to be completely assured that Geralt hadn’t meant those awful things, but he supposes their continued companionship will have to suffice. It was one of the reasons he’d sold his lute. Without it, he won’t be a nuisance to the other man. It made him enough coin for several nights at inns, with enough left over for a few baths and plates of food. It was a hard decision, but it was the right one. Now he just needed to start believing that. 

“Fine,” he declares when Geralt gives him a look. “I’ll go and talk to her. But if she doesn’t forgive me, I’ll never recover.” He warns before heading off to find the princess. He knows she can’t be far, Geralt never lets her wander out of his hearing distance and only when he knows the area is safe. “Ci- _Fiona_?” He calls out softly. He hears a twig snap a few feet away and Ciri’s muttered curse. Smiling to himself, he follows that direction until he finds the young girl. She’s got her arms crossed over her chest and she huffs as he arrives, turning and presenting her back to him. “Now that’s hardly far,” he pouts and circles around her. She refuses to meet his eye, thrusting her chin up as high as she can.

“Go away.”

“Ciri!” Jaskier flings his hand to his chest and lets out an exaggerated gasp, stumbling back a couple of steps. “You wound me! Is my humble presence as a bard no longer enough to be your companion?”

“You’re not one.” She snaps, cheeks flush with color. Jaskier frowns for a moment and the realization dawns on him.

“I...suppose you’re right.” He murmurs faintly before sinking down to the ground. Ciri eyes him for a moment before she sits next to him, almost crawling into his lap as she presses up against him. “I had forgotten…” he swallows and absently pats her on the back. “You noticed.”

“You loved that lute. You once told me that you’d rather die than ever part ways with it. Why did you sell it?” She asks softly.

“I needed the coin. I needed to...to pay my way.” 

“Geralt had enough coin for all of us! He told me himself!” Ciri’s gaze narrows in suspicion, but Jaskier doesn’t have the faintest idea what she’s talking about.

“Well...you see...I won’t always be with you, little lioness.” Jaskier sighs. Her lip begins to quiver and she shakes her head, shoving hard against his chest. “Wha- _ow!_ ”

“You can’t leave me!” She cries fiercely, her eyes beginning to glisten.

“Cirilla, my love-“

“No!” She pushes against him again and the first of her tears slip free. “I have lost _everything_ I have ever known. I lost my family, my home, my friends…” she sniffles and Jaskier wraps his arms around her, ignoring her weak protest as he hugs her close. “I found Geralt because that’s what grandmother wanted me to do. And now I have you back and I thought I had music again and it’s gone now. I don’t want you to go, too. Not again.”

“Selling my instrument does not mean music has been taken from you. We can make all the music we want and find other ways. When we are closer to the keep, I’ll buy you a special treat and continue teaching you.” He whispers against her hair.

“Why did you really sell it?” Ciri asks. Jaskier tries not to wince. He’d forgotten how easily the young princess could read him.

“Because it no longer made me happy.” It’s strange to admit the truth to her, but he finds that he can’t hold the words back. It’s not as though she’s going to run off and tell Geralt. “But that doesn’t mean that I can’t still enjoy music with you.” 

“Promise?” She whispers into his shoulder.

“I swear it on my life.”

-

If Jaskier shifts one more time, Geralt is going to lose his mind. The bard has been tossing and turning for the past several hours and he’s losing patience. He knows Jaskier is trying to be quiet, but he’s failing miserably. “Jaskier,” he growls out when the bard turns once again. “Sleep.”

“Sorry,” the other man says meekly. Geralt can practically taste the effort in which he gives to keeping still. It lasts for two minutes. He turns again and exhales roughly, nipping on his inner cheek. 

“ _Jaskier._ ”

“Are we ever going to talk about it?” Jaskier whispers, so faint that Geralt almost misses it. He wonders if he was meant to. He closes his eyes briefly and takes a slow, deep breath. Before he can second guess himself, he gets to his feet and drags his bed roll across the grass. “What are you doing?” Jaskier hisses, propping up on his elbow. 

“You’ll wake Ciri,” Geralt says by way of explanation. Jaskier nods and crawls halfway onto the bedding after a moment, waiting for Geralt to get comfortable before he speaks again.

“Thank you. It was a little…” he trails off and Geralt internally curses. Of course the man had been cold. He doesn’t have his own bedding and his coat isn’t thick enough for the journey ahead of them. He’ll have to keep an eye on that and lend his cloak again. He’s been a terrible friend and this only proves that his initial thoughts were right. Jaskier deserves far better company than he can give. 

He doesn’t know what Jaskier wants to talk about and that is unsettling. Geralt still doesn’t know what to say about the mountain. He doesn’t think he’ll ever possess the words to make things right. But before he has to ask, Jaskier exhales against his collarbone and hides his face there. “How did you find me?”

The question throws Geralt. Does he mean the pond with the drowners? It’s the only event that comes to mind and he furrows his brows, settling one arm across Jaskier’s waist. “Ciri told me you hadn’t come back to the inn.” He says. 

“What?” Jaskier’s nose twitches against his skin as he scrunches his face. “I’m talking about the...the camp.” His voice goes unsteady and Geralt can feel his heart beginning to race. The sourness of his panic taints the air. “When you rescued me from the soldiers.”

“Ah.” He murmurs. Geralt had avoided the topic the first time Jaskier had asked just after his rescue. “Ciri mentioned that you were at the castle the night it was attacked.” Geralt begins hesitantly. Jaskier flinches against him and he would give anything to take those memories away. “I hadn’t seen your body and knew you had to be taken. I asked the nearest camp where the soldiers had gone and found you a few days later.”

“They could have killed you.” Jaskier murmurs, settling one palm flat against Geralt’s chest. It feels strangely intimate, but he doesn’t mind. 

“They didn’t.” He reminds as Jaskier shudders against him again. 

“Did you know they took me from the bath?” He sniffs. Geralt’s mind flashes back to the panicked state Jaskier had woken in after he’d been rescued and again when he’d later clutched a bar of soap as a weapon. He’d chalked it up to Jaskier being on edge, but this answered questions he hadn’t wanted to ask. 

“They won’t take you again.” Geralt says against the top of his head. 

“They might try.”

“Let them.” A surge of protectiveness fills him and he tightens his hold on the other man. 

“Will I ever stop owing you life debts? I must owe fifteen by now.” Jaskier snuggles against him and it takes all of Geralt’s willpower not to stiffen. He isn’t used to touch like this given so freely. In the past, Jaskier had hung on his arm as they walked the beaten paths and leaned heavily against him when he’d had too much ale and cider in a seedy tavern. Geralt hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the casual touches until they were gone. He’d always taken it for granted and scoffed while shoving the bard off, but a part of him was grateful. If someone as bright as Jaskier could touch him so freely and without a care, perhaps he wasn’t such a monster after all. 

He buries his face down against Jaskier’s hair as the breathing of the other man begins to slow. “I don’t mind protecting you,” he confesses. Jaskier doesn’t answer. With a fond huff, Geralt brushes his knuckles absently along Jaskier’s spine. He’s not going to risk losing this again. As long as he still breathes, no harm will come to Jaskier’s head. It’s probably for the best that he’s fallen asleep. Geralt can’t admit that he cares about Jaskier. He has no right to those emotions. After the mountain, he’d burned all good will between them and ruined the only reliable friendship he’d ever had. His reasons at the time no longer mattered. He’d pushed Jaskier to protect him and the opposite came true. He’d been kidnapped and tormented because of his proximity to the Witcher. Geralt could never forgive himself for that and he doesn’t expect that Jaskier will forgive him either. They’ve got a truce at the moment, but he knows that Jaskier will leave when the time comes. Everyone does. 

-

“Two rooms, please. Preferably next to each other.” Jaskier says, sliding a handful of coins across the table. The barkeep grunts at him and nods toward the stairs, accepting the coin and sliding two keys over to him. Beaming, Jaskier accepts them and turns to find Ciri and Geralt. They’ve taken up a table in the corner and he starts to make his way over, stopping when a woman gets up and blocks his path. “Pardon me,” he says as he attempts to step around her. 

“I know you, don’t I?” She asks. Jaskier wracks his memories, digging through past conquests, but her face is unfamiliar to him. 

“Perhaps we have crossed paths,” he says simply. She taps her finger against her chin and snaps them a moment later, delight crossing her features. 

“Jaskier! That’s the name, isn’t it?” Her eyebrow cocks and he drops his gaze, quickly shaking his head. 

“Afraid not, madam. Julian is the name-“ he tries. A man from the table joins the woman, shaking his head vigorously as Jaskier tries to speak over him. 

“It’s not! You wrote them songs about the Witcher! The White Wolf of Rivia!” He booms. Jaskier flinches back from his voice and shoots a panicked look at the corner. Ciri is tucked away next to Geralt, peering out with wide eyes. The Witcher though...his expression yields to thinly veiled anger. 

“I’m afraid I am not the man you seek. Terribly sorry-“ Jaskier tries again to step around them and another person stands. He feels the panic sticking to the back of his throat, making it difficult to breathe. “I’m not-“

“Leave him be.” Geralt snaps, suddenly at his side. The villagers reel back, mouths going slack as they take in the Witcher. “Julian?” He asks and Jaskier blinks twice before he realizes that Geralt is talking to him. 

“Fine.” Jaskier feels anything but. His hands are clammy and he thinks he might be sick. “I...I think I want to go and lie down.” He stumbles back a step, his skin prickling with unease. 

“Julian,” Geralt tries again and reaches for him. He shakes his head and turns abruptly, head spinning as he makes a dash for the stairs. He takes them two at a time and hits the wall as he turns the corner at the top, swaying back. He fits his key into three doors before he finds one that opens and he practically falls inside, gasping for breath as he hits his knees. He kicks himself sideways until he’s holed up in the corner, arms wrapping around his knees as he draws them to his chest. His breaths come in shallow and he buries his face, shoulders shaking with the effort it takes not to scream. 

It feels like hours later when Jaskier can lift his head again. Exhaustion weighs down his body and he uses the table to help him up, hating the way his body is still trembling. Shuffling over to the bed, he collapses down onto the bedding and removes his boots. His belt comes next, joining the heap on the floor. He’s barely gotten down on his side with his fingers gripping the blanket when a timid knock hits the door. Ciri pokes her head in immediately after, pressing her lips in a thin line as she watches him. “Can I come in?”

“Always.” He assures. He starts to sit up, but she shakes her head and sits down on the edge of the bed. Toeing off her boots, she rolls over to face him. He opens up one arm and she snuggles contentedly into his chest with a sigh. 

“Were those people being rude to you?” She asks quietly. 

“No. Not at all. They just…” he hesitates a moment, unsure of how to put it into words. “It’s like when you see a soldier and your stomach goes into knots and your heart begins to race. You know they aren’t going to hurt you, but you remember being chased and you panic and it all comes crashing back.”

“I’m sorry.” She says in a small voice against him. “Is it because there were so many people?”

“Yeah.” He closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath. “Did you have a nice dinner with Geralt?”

“No. He looked worried the whole time and he didn’t listen to anything I said to him.” Ciri’s head presses into his chest and he brings one hand up, rubbing it along her back. “Will you play with my hair?”

“It would be my honor, little lioness.” Smiling fondly, he slides his hand up higher and lightly twists a few strands around his fingers. He begins to thread them through his grasp, lightly brushing the tips of his fingers against her scalp every now and then. 

“It’s okay to be afraid of crowds and people,” she murmurs sleepily after a few minutes of silence. “You could have told me that’s why you didn’t want to play music anymore.”

“I don’t think I knew.” Jaskier says. There are a million reasons that he sold his lute, or at least five. He can certainly add this to the list. 

“Good night, Jas.” She whispers. 

“Good night, Cirilla.” He presses a kiss to the top of her head and within seconds she’s asleep, slumping further into his embrace. He doesn’t stop playing with her hair, gaze drifting to the far wall. He doesn’t know how she does it. She’s lost far more than Jaskier has and yet she still wants to fight. She hasn’t given up hope despite the horrors she’s faced. Jaskier’s broken heart and fractured spirit pale in comparison. He wishes he still had her strength. Ciri is full of passion and fire and she’s going to be exceptional at whatever she pursues. He just wishes he had an ounce of that deep inside. 

The door opens and startles him from his thoughts. Geralt quietly closes it, raising a brow in silent question at Ciri. He subtly nods his head and the Witcher comes closer, kneeling down beside the bed. “I need the key to my room,” he murmurs. Jaskier frowns for a moment, trying to remember what he’s done with them, and he nods at the corner of the room where he’d been. Geralt glances over and nods, getting up to go and collect both keys. He reaches for the door handle and Jaskier’s heart begins to race. 

“Wait!” He pleads softly. Geralt turns his head and holds his gaze for a moment. Jaskier doesn’t know what he sees. The man finally nods and comes close again, setting the keys on the bedside table. “Will you stay tonight?” He asks, feeling foolish as the words tumble from his mouth. But Geralt doesn’t deny him. He nods and grabs both keys, heading for the door. Confusion swims through Jaskier, but he trusts Geralt not to break his word. Sure enough, the Witcher returns a moment later with a couple of coins in his palm. He sets them down and strips his gear, toeing off his boots at the foot of the bed. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier whispers. He shuffles slightly with Ciri toward the edge of the bed, giving Geralt space to climb in behind him. He knows from a decade of experience that Geralt prefers his back to the wall and to see the whole room when he’s sharing his space. Jaskier needs that kind of safe reminder. He waits until Geralt is settled before he leans back, exhaling. Once upon a time, Geralt would have shoved him away for invading his space. But he seems to understand that Jaskier needs his presence. 

“Are you okay?” The murmur comes close to his ear and he shivers, trying not to read into it as an arm draped over his waist. 

“Better than I was,” Jaskier admits. “They surrounded me and I felt like I’d never escape.”

“That’s what happened when you were taken.” It’s not a question, but he nods anyways. 

“There were so many of them. I couldn’t…” his breath seizes. A hand squeezes his hip and Geralt’s chin rests on top of his head. He breathes out shallowly and closes his eyes, wetness clinging to his lashes. 

“No one will take you again.” Geralt promises. He feels the vibrations against his back and manages a weak smile. 

“Not while I’ve got my Witcher around.” The words slip from his tongue with ease and he finds that he doesn’t regret them terribly. Geralt says nothing else, but that doesn’t surprise him. He settles back against the other man and soaks in his warmth, feeling his body starting to relax. As he drifts off to sleep, he feels Geralt shift against him and the arm at his waist tightens. He’s safe. 

-

It’s mid-afternoon when Geralt stops them to set up camp. Jaskier squints in suspicion as the Witcher leads them through the woods, into a small area protected by trees with a stream trickling nearby. They have a few good hours of daylight left. Geralt never stops traveling until he’s run out of light or Ciri complains enough about her hunger. He’s been acting peculiar all morning. Whatever is going on in his head, Jaskier wishes he would open up. He’d woken to a cold space in the bed that morning and it had dampened his spirits. Geralt had offered no explanation upon his return, ushering Ciri and Jaskier downstairs for breakfast before they got back on the road. 

The man ties Roach off to a tree and unsaddles one of her packs, gesturing for Ciri to come closer. He pulls out a thin rapier wrapped in cloth, extending the handle toward her. “What’s this?” She breathes out, fingers hovering above the handle as she looks down at it. 

“It’s time you learn to defend yourself. In case I cannot be there.” His gaze flicks briefly to Jaskier and his cheeks heat up. Does Geralt think that Jaskier would not risk his life to protect Ciri? That he would willingly let anyone else near her? He lets out a huff and swears that Geralt’s lips twitch with amusement. That bastard. 

“Is this one of yours?” Ciri asks. Shaking his head, Geralt presses the handle up against her hand and waits for her fingers to curl around it. 

“This will belong to you. Test its weight,” he urges. She lifts it with care, pulls it from the sheath, and extends it away from Geralt, her arm falling slightly with the added weight. Jaskier crosses his arms over his chest to watch, nodding his approval as Geralt adjusts her grip. 

“You’re going to teach me how to fight then?” Ciri asks. “Just with a sword?”

“With your body as well,” Geralt corrects. “You won’t always be able to grab your weapon in a fight.”

“Oh, thank you!” Ciri makes a move to throw her arms around Geralt and aborts it quickly, her cheeks flush with color as he narrows his gaze. Snorting to himself, Jaskier takes a seat on the grass. Oh, he can’t wait to see how this goes. 

“Get up, Jaskier.” Geralt says, turning back to Roach’s bags. He wants to stay seated, but curiosity wins him over and he gets back up with a sigh. The bundle Geralt starts to unroll is smaller than Ciri’s, but there’s a flash of silver that makes his breath catch. Inside the package are two slim daggers, one ornately decorated and longer, the other small and simple. He reaches for the curved handle of the ornate dagger and brushes his fingers along the intricate swirls carved into the hilt. He’ll have to inspect it later, but he thinks they might be flowers. 

“Oh, it’s beautiful.” He whispers before lifting it up. It’s perfectly balanced and feels like it was made for him. “Geralt,” he begins in a small voice, “I can’t-“

“I’ll teach you. Both of you.” The Witcher murmurs. Jaskier wants to protest, that wasn’t what he meant at all, but the words are stuck and he can’t speak around them. He nods and takes the smaller dagger with his free hand, surprised at how light it is. “One for your hip, the other for your boot.” Geralt says. 

“Do you think this is really necessary?” Jaskier murmurs before looking up through his lashes. A shadow passes over Geralt’s face and he nods, mouth tightening at the corners. Jaskier doesn’t even ask. They’re thinking of the same thing. “Geralt-“

“Ciri first. Go round up wood for the night.” Geralt instructs. With a nod, Jaskier sheathes his new weapon and sets them both carefully on the ground where camp will be set. He bounds off into the trees, a new skip in his step as he goes. This is the perfect opportunity for him to prove that he isn’t completely worthless after all. 

He makes a nice fire for them when he returns and takes a seat next to it, bringing out the blades to study them. Both were made by a master of their craft, that’s for certain. He feels like they were practically created for this very reason and that’s ridiculous. He tucks the smaller one into his boot as Geralt had suggested and stands up, walking to and from the stream while Ciri works with the other man. It’s not exactly comfortable, but the weapon doesn’t impede his movements. He’ll just need to get used to its presence. Briefly, he wonders if Geralt feels any differently when he isn’t carrying his swords. Lighter, certainly, but does he feel exposed? Helpless? Jaskier knows the man is anything but. 

As the sun begins to set, Geralt breaks from practice with Ciri to let her eat. Jaskier starts to fill a bowl for himself, but Geralt shakes his head and motions for him to follow. “But I’m hungry,” he complains while doing as told. “You let Ciri take a break to eat!”

“You haven’t started yet,” Geralt reminds. Jaskier can practically feel the man rolling his eyes. “Draw your blade.”

“Fine.” With an exaggerated sigh, Jaskier pulls his dagger out and tosses the sheath to the grass. He holds it tightly in front of him, eyeing Geralt as the man circles around him. Without warning, he strikes out with his palm and hits Jaskier’s wrist. Pain flares through him and he drops the blade with a startled cry, whirling around. “That hurt!”

“Would have hurt less had you been holding it properly.” The man looks so smug. 

“Then teach me how to hold it, oh master of all.” Jaskier snips. Rolling his eyes, Geralt retrieves the blade from the grass and offers it back. He guides his fingers around Jaskier’s wrist and moves downward, adjusting his fingers one by one. Jaskier doesn’t dare breathe as Geralt corrects him. It’s a shaky exhale when the Witcher steps back with a nod of approval. 

“Feel the difference?”

“Yeah,” he admits begrudgingly. It feels far more natural. Geralt’s palm hits his wrist again and he instinctively tightens his grip, immensely pleased when the blade wobbles but he doesn’t let go. 

“Better. Now, strike at me.”

“ _What?!”_ His eyes go wide and he turns, but Geralt simply looks amused by his outburst. 

“I’m faster than you, bard.” He reminds. Jaskier suppresses the urge to stick out his tongue. He shifts himself around to face Geralt and strikes forward, upper body bowing over as he takes a half step forward. Another strike to his wrist and his blade is in the grass. “Follow through with the movement, Jaskier. Again.” He instructs, bending to retrieve the blade. “Don’t be afraid to move.”

“You’re going to hit me again,” Jaskier says. “Aren’t you?”

“Only if you let me.” The smug tone makes something ignite inside of him. He takes the blade and faces Geralt again, taking a deep breath. Moving a full step forward this time, he strikes out. The blade falls from his fingers a moment later and he huffs in annoyance. “Patience, Jaskier.”

“How long did it take you?” He asks curiously. 

“I can’t remember.” Geralt says. Something clouds over his expression, gone before Jaskier can place it. Fuck everyone who has ever believed that Geralt and his people don’t feel emotions. He’s just better at hiding them than the average person. 

“Sorry I asked.” Jaskier says. Geralt hums in response and makes him ready again. He loses his blade at least thirty times and his wrist and arm ache by the time Geralt calls it quits. But he can see a small improvement in himself and Geralt even nods his approval a couple of times. It’s one of the best compliments he’s ever received from the man. No, perhaps it’s the only one. Still, he can’t deny how much it pleases him deeply. 

When the fire is dying and Jaskier lays down on the ground, he’s surprised by Geralt beckoning him over. The Witcher nods at his bedroll and he settles down slowly, waiting for Geralt to do the same. He doesn’t dare ask why, afraid that asking will have the opposite effect and make Geralt send him away. He rolls onto his side to give Geralt some space and the Witcher’s chest presses along his back. His brain stalls out for a moment as an arm settles comfortably along his waist and he _must_ be dreaming. It’s one thing to do this in the inn where space had been limited. It’s another entirely when there’s plenty of space around them and the night is unusually warm. Not that he has any complaints. 

Geralt’s chin settles on top of his head again and Jaskier swears his heartbeat flutters. “Sleep,” he commands quietly. Jaskier huffs and slowly lets himself relax, melting back against Geralt. He wants to argue that it isn’t quite that simple, but the warmth of the other body is luring him fast to unconsciousness. As he starts to drift, he feels gentle fingers wrap around his wrist and rub soothingly against his battered skin. Letting out a quiet hum, he lets himself go into the darkness. 

In the morning, Jaskier is woken by a rather pressing problem. He shifts uncomfortably, a low whine escaping him as his aching cock seeks friction. Geralt rumbles sleepily against his neck and _that_ snaps Jaskier into full awareness. He goes still, breath shuddering out of him. The Witcher, still sleeping by the grace of the gods, tightens his hold in his sleep. He’s got one arm around Jaskier’s waist and his head is buried against Jaskier’s neck. “Fuck,” he whispers as he squirms again. This is not how he wants Geralt to wake up. 

-

The scent of spice makes Geralt’s nose twitch. He groans softly, burying his face against something warm. Something wriggles against his front and he tightens his arm, muttering an unintelligible complaint. Jaskier’s scent tickles his nose and floods his senses, nearly luring him back to his dream. His cock twitches in his pants and the figure he’s holding lets out a _whimper_ that makes him open his eyes. _Fuck_. 

He releases Jaskier with a grunt, rolling away and getting to his feet before the other man can stop him. He disappears through the trees without second thought, eager to get away before he does something stupid. Something like returning to the campsite and carrying Jaskier off with him. Pinning him against a tree and-

“Fuck,” he utters aloud. He crosses the stream and continues on his path, walking until he feels far enough that Jaskier won’t be able to find him. He shoves his pants down with a grunt, taking himself in hand and languidly stroking his cock. He can still taste Jaskier’s arousal on his tongue and his nose is filled with it. He’s smelled it before in taverns, when Jaskier had been falling over himself to bed different women, and once when Geralt had been in the bath. He hadn’t paid attention to it. Now it feels like it is everywhere and he can’t shake it off. 

Exhaling roughly, he brushed his thumb along his slit and jerked himself hard and fast. No time for pleasure, it would give him too much time to think. Time to imagine Jaskier pliant under him, his mouth soft and willing as Geralt devours him. Leaving bruises on his hips and marking his neck with sharp teeth, reminding the Continent that the bard belongs to him. Stroking pleasure from him until Jaskier was singing his praises for an entirely new reason. Painting the beautiful man so that he knows he’ll never belong to anyone else- “Fuck!” He spills over his hand and strokes himself through it, breathing hard. 

He dips his hands into the stream to clean them, wiping sweat from his brow with his shoulder. It’s not the first time he’s woken like this, aching and yearning for something that he knows he cannot have. Sharing space with Jaskier is a dangerous temptation that he can’t seem to shake. The other man is going to be his ruin. He shakes the thought away and starts to stand, but a sound further along the stream catches his attention. He listens harder and a filthy moan rewards him, sending color to his cheeks. “Fu- _fuck,_ ” he hears Jaskier rasp. His cock stirs with interest and he presses his palm against himself, listening as Jaskier continues to make sinful noises. He deserves his privacy, but Geralt can’t seem to make himself move. 

“ _Geralt, fuck._ ” The words make him tense as if he’s been caught. But Jaskier releases another choked moan, his name mixed in, and it’s followed by labored breathing. “Oh gods…” 

“Fuck.” Geralt swallows hard. There’s no denying what he’s heard. He makes his way quickly back to camp and begins to load their gear onto Roach. The sooner they get on the path, the less likely he’ll have to face Jaskier. As he gets Ciri on her feet, the man that’s consuming his thoughts returns with flushed cheeks and slightly swollen lips. Geralt finishes securing his saddle bag to Roach and lifts Ciri up, trying not to look as Jaskier shuffles closer. He doesn’t say anything for once, securing his dagger to his waist and the other in his boot. Geralt helps him climb onto Roach and they start for the path. He tries not to notice the way Jaskier keeps looking at him and the scent of sex that still lingers around both of them. 

-

When they arrive in the next town, Geralt is immediately overwhelmed in the tavern by the citizens who desperately need his help. Jaskier and Ciri are left to fend for themselves for three days while Geralt goes to handle a contract. They hole themselves up dutifully in the room and practice with their weapons, doing exercises that Geralt has taught them. Jaskier is by no means an expert of the blade now, but he does see marked improvement. And Ciri has taken to it with determination, growing stronger and faster every day they practice. Jaskier’s chest warms with pride. 

Geralt returns after Ciri’s fallen asleep. He’s soaked from the rain and covered in gore and all manner of entrails. Jaskier follows him to the bathing room and helps him strip down his armor and climb into the steaming water. Geralt groans and dips his head beneath the water, soaking his hair and lifting it up so Jaskier can rub soap through it. “No injuries,” Jaskier says as his fingers brush over Geralt’s shoulder. 

“Easy contract,” he replies. His eyes are closed, but there’s a pleased smile playing at the corners of his lips. Jaskier longs to brush his fingers over them. In such close proximity, with Geralt naked under his hands, it’s much harder to ignore his own desires. It’s becoming more problematic now. Jaskier wakes every morning aching for Geralt to touch him and the Witcher is always gone when he opens his eyes. Geralt is most likely giving him privacy to tend to himself, as he had nearly a week prior when they’d been on the road. He’d woke hard and wanting and Geralt had woken immediately, stalking off before Jaskier could even apologize. They haven’t spoken of it and Jaskier doubts they will. Probably for the best. 

But now, bathed in soft candlelight with water rippling around him, Geralt looks like Jaskier’s wet dream. His fingers comb the last bit of muck through Geralt’s hair and the Witcher turns his head, eyes drifting to Jaskier’s. “Thank you,” he murmurs. Jaskier licks his lips and nods, fighting the urge to squirm beneath Geralt’s heavy gaze. 

“What was it this time?” He asks. 

“Wyverns. Four of them.” Geralt answers. Jaskier nods, not needing a description. He’s encountered a handful of those pesky winged monstrosities over the years. 

“I’m sure they paid you quite handsomely.” He says. There’s a speck of muck on Geralt’s cheek and he brushes it away with his thumb, sucking in a breath as Geralt releases a pleased hum. His eyes darken as he meets Jaskier’s gaze and this time he doesn’t look away. He spans his fingers across Geralt’s cheek and cautiously tips his head forward, waiting for the moment he’s going to be turned away. His breath is stolen as Geralt moves willingly with his guidance, tilting his head slightly as he begins to lean in. Heart thundering in his chest, Jaskier braces himself. His eyes fall shut as Geralt’s breath ghosts over his lips and-

“Witcher!” The cry is followed by a heavy pounding on the door. Releasing a yelp, Jaskier tumbles back flat on his ass. “Witcher, please! There’s another!” The innkeeper knocks again and Geralt growls, climbing from the tub. 

“He’ll be right out!” Jaskier answers before Geralt decides to rip the man’s head off. He gets up and grabs a towel, helping Geralt back into his filthy clothes as quickly as possible. 

“Jaskier…” he begins.

“Go on, oh great and heroic White Wolf. I’ll have them run a fresh bath for you. Shouldn’t take three days this time, should it?” He asks with false cheer, trying to cover up the anxious thing beating like a war drum in his chest. 

“I’ll be back within the hour.” With that, Geralt finishes adjusting his swords and strides quickly from the room. Jaskier all but collapses back onto the floor, drawing his knees up to his chest and sticking his head between them. Merciful gods, he’d nearly kissed his best friend. Or had Geralt nearly kissed him? It doesn't matter. Geralt hadn’t shied away from him. He wants Jaskier. 

But why? Jaskier can’t wrap his mind around that. While he prides himself on his good looks and charm, he isn’t Geralt’s type. He doesn’t have magical eyes or a full chest that he likes to show off. He’s not flashy with his magic or insane. Well, perhaps a part of him is for falling in love with Geralt. The point is, Jaskier is not Yennefer. Geralt has no reason to want to be with him. And yet here they are. Geralt had wanted it in the same way Jaskier had. His eyes had been dark with lust, it’s a look that Jaskier has only really seen aimed at the sorceress. To be the recipient of such a heated look sends a new wave of shivers down his spine. 

He curses the innkeeper for interrupting them and curses Geralt for missing one of the wyverns. When he comes back, Jaskier is going to scrub him clean once again and kiss him like his life depends upon it. With a sigh, he gets up and asks the innkeeper to run a new hot bath within the hour. He goes up to his room again to wait and crawls into bed with Ciri, fully intent on shutting his eyes for a few minutes. He doesn’t wake again until the bed is dipping behind him and there’s a press of lips to his shoulder. Smiling, he snuggles back into the other man and forgets all about his previous plans as sleep claims him again. 

-

They don’t talk about it. Jaskier doesn’t think Geralt regrets what nearly happened, but neither of them can find the words to discuss it. He’s as relieved as he is disappointed. Unfortunately, the incident has given his dreams a new thing to fixate on and Geralt’s darkened eyes are haunting him. It’s been two days since the incident and Jaskier is growing restless. When they stop early and Geralt suggests practicing with their weapons, Jaskier is all too eager to agree. Ciri goes first as always and Geralt wears her out within a couple of hours. As she lies down for a nap, the Witcher beckons Jaskier closer. 

“Shirt off,” he commands. Jaskier’s brain nearly stalls out, yet somehow his fingers do exactly as he’s told. He flushes warmly as he drops his shirt to the ground and frowns at Geralt. The Witcher nods his approval and doesn’t say anything else, readying the sword in his hand. Jaskier adjusts his grip on his blade and keeps his eyes on Geralt as the man circles around him. 

“Why?” He asks, fighting the urge to cover up. Thank the gods Ciri is asleep. 

“Does it make you uncomfortable?” Geralt asks, the flat of his blade flashing to Jaskier’s left. He manages a quick block and wonders not for the first time how hard it is for Geralt to slow his reflexes so Jaskier can keep up. 

“Of course it does!” He says, heat flooding his face again. 

“Good. You need to be able to fight at your most vulnerable.” Geralt says simply. 

“If you tell me I need to be naked next, that’s where I’m drawing the line.” Jaskier says. He swears that this time, Geralt blushes. “Fine. If I have to be like this, so do you.” He points with his dagger and flicks up and down Geralt’s torso. With a roll of his eyes, the man does as suggested and his shirt joins Jaskier’s. By the gods, it isn’t fair how he looks! Jaskier knows he doesn’t compare. He doesn’t have half the muscles rippling across his abdomen and he’s got more soft spots on his stomach than Geralt probably has on his entire body. 

“Are you done gawking, bard?” Geralt sounds far too amused and Jaskier lashes out with his dagger. It’s easily knocked away by a lazy swing of Geralt’s blade. 

“I’m not a bard, yet you still call me one. Often. Why is that?” He asks. It doesn’t bother him in the least, but he doesn’t understand why. 

“You’re no less a bard than I am a Witcher.”

“I told you that I was never playing again.” He says, bringing up his blade to block Geralt again. Their blades graze and Geralt taps the flat of his blade against Jaskier’s bare side, making him shiver. 

“You miss it.” Geralt says. It’s not a question, but Jaskier nods. He does. He misses having a lute and telling stories to a captive audience. He’s written a few new songs in his journals, usually when Ciri is asleep and Geralt is away on contract or hunting for their dinner. As the weeks have gone by, he’s started to regret his decision to sell his beautiful instrument. He doesn’t think it was the wrong decision. If he hadn’t sold it, he can’t imagine things would be as they were with Geralt by now. He would have annoyed the Witcher and been cast away. Their near kiss would not have happened. 

A tap at his side and then swiftly on his bottom makes him jump and snap his gaze back to Geralt. Embarrassment colors his face and the other man looks concerned. “Daydreaming will get you killed,” he reminds. 

“Sorry,” he says. Something odd passes over Geralt’s face and he presses his luck. “What’s the matter?” He asks. Geralt has become more open and willing to talk as the weeks have passed and he feels confident enough to get an answer this time. 

“You are always apologizing.” The statement makes Jaskier blink in surprise. 

“Is that a bad thing?”

“It’s not you.” Again, something he cannot read in Geralt’s voice. A hint of frustration? 

“And what is me, Geralt?” He asks. Without warning, Geralt knocks their blades together and steps into Jaskier’s personal space. His heart thunders in his chest with the mere centimetres between them and he tilts his face up, breath catching as he looks at Geralt. “Tell me,” he whispers. 

“You’re-“

“Why are you both shirtless?” Ciri startles them apart. Jaskier scrambles to grab their shirts, thrusting Geralt’s against his firm chest. 

“Just got too hot, that’s all! My apologies, milady.” He gives a theatrical bow that makes Ciri giggle and tugs on his shirt with a wink. “Rabbit for dinner, how does that sound?” He asks, sheathing his dagger and walking over. Geralt mutters something about going to hunt and Jaskier watches him leave. He longs to know what Geralt was going to tell him in the light of day. It’s one thing for the man to murmur soft things when he thinks Jaskier is asleep. It’s another entirely to speak these truths into the light of day. But when Geralt joins him that night to sleep and covers Jaskier with his cloak to fight the chill in the air, he says nothing. Jaskier snuggles into him regardless and falls fast asleep. 

-

Geralt wakes to the prickling sensation of being watched. It’s still early, Jaskier and Ciri sleeping soundly, but someone is in the trees. He curses himself for sleeping through their approach and knows they had to have been almost silent as they crept this close to camp. He can smell at least three men just out of sight and there could be more close by. Careful not to let them know he’s noticed, he gets up and makes his way to Roach and untethers her. She snorts and stamps one hoof in agitation and he strokes her neck, murmuring comfort. 

He doesn’t bother packing the saddle bags, kneeling down to shake Ciri awake. She blinks blearily up at him and he presses a finger to her lips, quieting her before she can ask. He nods toward Roach and she goes quickly, climbing into the saddle. Jaskier wakes just as easily, but he pales when Geralt motions for him to stay quiet. His fingers wrap around the hilt of the dagger strapped to his waist and Geralt nods. At least he knows the bard can fight if he has to. Together they start to pack up their camp, Geralt listening intently to the woods surrounding them. 

The first bandit breaks through the trees, straight for Ciri and Roach. His steed snaps with powerful teeth and rears up, Ciri clinging to her neck. Jaskier throws himself toward the pair and Geralt watches him smack Roach on the flank, sending her flying through the trees to safety. He draws his dagger and turns, narrowly avoiding a tackle from the next bandit that comes crashing through the bushes. Geralt cuts him down with his sword, kicking him in the chest and sending him sprawling. From the corner of his eye, he sees Jaskier parry off another dagger and get locked in a fight with a broader man. 

He doesn’t have time to worry about it, bringing his blade up just as another bandit charges him. He’s dispatched messily, joining his companion in the dirt. Jaskier lets out a cry and Geralt turns, watching his dagger hit the ground and a blade get pressed to his throat. The bandit twists Jaskier so he’s pressed against his chest, knife drawing blood at his throat. “Drop it!” He barks at Geralt. 

“Fuck you,” Jaskier snarls. The blade presses harder and Geralt tightens his grip, shifting as more bandits come through the trees. On any day, this would be an easy fight. He could kill these men ten times over and have barely broken a sweat. But Jaskier being in danger is not something that he takes lightly. If he so much as moves, he’s going to lose the person he cares for most. “Geralt, no. Go find Fiona-“

“Shut up,” the bandit snarls. Geralt tosses his sword to the grass and one of the closer bandits scrambles forward, grabbing it and scurrying back as though Geralt is going to kill him with his bare hands. An easy task, but one he typically abstains from. 

“Let him go.” He growls out. “He’s just a bard-“

“With a pretty blade like that? He must be something more. The riches we’ll get off the pair of you…” he nods his head and another bandit comes forward, rope in his hands. Geralt’s hands are tied behind his back and he’s forced to his knees, glowering at the man that’s still holding Jaskier hostage. He’s ashen, looking at Geralt with worried eyes. The bandit shoves him downward and he’s tied up as well, falling into Geralt’s side. He shifts upright and kicks at the bandits with a cry of frustration, doing little more than annoying them. Geralt catches his gaze and gives a subtle shake of his head, silently commanding Jaskier to be still. The bandits carry on about them, rummaging through the saddle bags that had yet to be packed and taking everything of value. 

It goes on for most of the morning. The bandits are no longer paying them any attention, going through Jaskier’s journals and reading the entries mockingly as they drink from their own flasks. Geralt nudges his shoulder against the bard, nodding down at his boot. He fucking hopes that he’s still got his second dagger hidden there. Jaskier slowly slides his leg back toward them, shifting his body away so his ankle can fit between them. Geralt scoots away so Jaskier can grab the blade, nodding his approval. From this angle, he can better see the wound on his neck. It’s stopped bleeding and he thinks it’s a superficial wound, but it’s hard to tell with the blood caked beneath it. These men will pay dearly for the mark. 

“I’ll fucking kill them all,” Jaskier hisses under his breath as he tries to cut at the rope. His movements are clumsy and uncertain, but Geralt doesn’t interrupt him. “Fuck. Do you think they caught-“ he stops himself, looking at Geralt with wide blue eyes. 

“No. She escaped.” Of that, he is certain. If the bandits had caught Ciri, then she would have been brought back to the camp with his horse. He only hopes she wasn’t foolish enough to turn around and come back. 

“Gods, Geralt. How did they sneak up on us like that?”

“I let my guard down.” He always does when Jaskier is around. 

“No, you slept. There’s a difference.” Jaskier huffs, continuing to cut away at the rope. “I...what if I can’t do it?” He asks in a small voice. 

“Do what?” Geralt furrows his brows. He can see that Jaskier is making decent progress at the ropes. He’ll be free in no time. 

“Kill a man.” Oh. Sometimes he forgets that Jaskier isn’t like him in that regard. The bard would never hurt a fly, let alone another person. He’s seen him back down from quarrels in taverns enough times to know that he truly is a lover, not a fighter. 

“If it’s you or them, there’s no choice. Remember what I taught you.” He hates that Jaskier is in this position, but it’s better than being dead. He knows that Jaskier can defend himself, that he’d held his own with his blade for as long as he could. He’s proud of him for that and when they make it out of this mess, he’ll tell him exactly what he thinks. 

“I’ve almost got it.” Jaskier says. The ropes give just as one of the bandits comes ambling over with a drunken swagger. 

“Time’s up, little bardling!” He laughs, fumbling to free the knife at his waist. “Gonna stick you like a pig and then your Witcher, too.” He leans over Jaskier. Before Geralt can throw himself at the man, he sees Jaskier drive his blade up through the man’s rib cage and straight into his heart. The man chokes, eyes going wide. A wheezing breath escapes him before he fumbles to the grass. Jaskier yanks his blade free and hides it behind him, shifting back toward Geralt. The wet blade is passed to him just as the other bandits turn. 

“Look at that! Roger’s so pissed that he’s done passed out!” A roar of laughter breaks out and Geralt rolls his eyes. He breaks the rope the rest of the way and stands, retrieving a sword strapped to the bandit’s waist. The others release various cries of alarm as he advances, tightening his grip on the blade. He feels Jaskier behind him and doesn’t look back, knowing the bard can take care of himself. 

They cut through the bandits with ease, taking full advantage of how drunk they are. Jaskier cuts down two more men on his own and Geralt takes the rest, sending them sprawling to the dirt. “Take that!” Jaskier shouts as he kicks one of the corpses. Geralt turns, watching as he bends down to retrieve his stolen dagger from the man’s belt. “You bastards,” he says as he wipes his other blade on the man’s clothing. Geralt’s struck by just how close he was to losing Jaskier. 

He can’t do this without Jaskier. He can’t go to Kaer Morhen with Ciri and just part ways with the other man. Now, more than ever, he _wants_ the bard at his side. He doesn’t care how long they have together or that Jaskier could break his heart. He inevitably will when he ages and nears death. But that is decades away and Geralt doesn’t care. He needs Jaskier. He wants to continue waking up with him in the same bed, holding him close. He wants all of Jaskier’s smiles and laughs directed at him. He wants for once in his life and he’s got to do something about it. 

Sheathing his sword, he crosses the distance between them and settles a hand on Jaskier’s slim waist. Before the bard can protest, Geralt covers his lips and tugs them flush together. A gasp spills between them and Geralt drinks it eagerly from his lips, thumb rubbing circles against Jaskier’s hip. His free hand cups the side of Jaskier’s face and he tilts his head, deepening the kiss with gentle strokes of his tongue. Jaskier practically melts into his chest, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt as he meets Geralt with just as much passion and intensity. Fire ignites in Geralt’s veins and he pushes Jaskier back into a tree, pinning him as he devours his mouth. 

The kiss is broken when the need to breathe becomes too much and Jaskier threads his fingers through Geralt’s hair, trembling against him. “Finally,” he whispers. Geralt hums in agreement and leans their foreheads together. He can’t stop sweeping his thumb across Jaskier’s cheek and the look of pure love he receives makes his heart swell. “I thought perhaps I was dreaming or wishing for too much or-“ Geralt silences him with a kiss because he can. Jaskier huffs as he pulls back, eyes sparking with playful anger. “You’re not going to get your way by doing that, you brute.”

“We’ll see.” Geralt hums before kissing him again. He pulls back regrettably sooner than he’d like, nodding toward their scattered belongings. “Let’s go find Ciri,” he says. The nearest town can’t be too far. They pack everything as quickly as they can, pausing only for stolen glances and shy smiles aimed at each other. When they arrive in town at sundown, Ciri is waiting for them at the inn. She demands to know what took them so long and the townspeople celebrate when they hear that Geralt has handled their bandit problem. They receive free meals and their room on the house for the night. As Jaskier sits by the fire and engages the townspeople in an elaborate tale of what happened, Geralt watches from the corner. Jaskier is back in his element and Geralt has an idea on how to keep this new light burning. 

-

For the first time in their long journey, they’re rewarded with a room that has two beds. They bathe separately and when it’s time to sleep, Jaskier is relieved to find that Geralt still wants to share a bed with him. He doesn’t know what he was so worried about. He snuggles happily into Geralt’s chest and presses a featherlight kiss to his exposed collarbone. “Jaskier,” Geralt murmurs fondly as he does it twice more. 

“Oh, you love it.” He says before pressing his lips to Geralt’s throat. He feels the slow pulse there and litters it with affection, pressing kiss after kiss against him until Geralt grips his chin and hauls him in for a proper one. Jaskier’s knees go weak and he flattens one hand over Geralt’s heart, his own pulse roaring in his ears. He’d never thought that he would get this from his best friend. That he would ever be kissing Geralt of Rivia and be wanted by him. It makes his insides warm and when the kiss is broken again, he peppers kisses across Geralt’s cheeks and forehead because he can. The Witcher is smiling fondly, one hand lazily stroking up Jaskier’s spine, and he presses a kiss to Jaskier’s forehead. 

“You did well today.” Geralt tells him. He blushes from the praise, feeling positively giddy. 

“I did?” He knows that he didn’t last in their fight nearly as long as he’d hoped. If that bastard hadn’t gotten the upper hand on him, they probably wouldn’t have been tied up. He’d hesitated a moment too long and-

“Jaskier.” Geralt guides his face up to look him in the eye. “You held your own against men twice your size. I am proud of you.” The words send another wave of feelings through him and Jaskier feels like he’s glowing as he meets Geralt in the middle for a kiss. There’s nothing rushed to this and they take their time, exploring each other’s mouths and mapping one another out. Jaskier threads his fingers through Geralt’s hair and a hand presses against his lower back, anchoring him. They break apart far too soon for his taste and he steals another kiss against the corner of his lips. 

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he admits in a small voice. Geralt nods and brushes a kiss to his forehead, silently urging him to continue. “I knew when I first met you that you were something special. Not just my next muse, but you were the man that I wanted. I didn’t realize it until...until the djinn.” He says hesitantly. 

“I was less than kind to you then,” Geralt reminds. 

“A proper arse, you were. But you didn’t let me die. You tied your fate to the sorceress because she saved my life. That’s when I started to hope that maybe I wasn’t such a burden to you after all.” Jaskier admits. 

“Yet you didn’t travel with me again for months.” 

“I was a bit preoccupied with the thought of you and Yennefer fucking on the floor. I thought you dead and you were _very_ much alive.” Geralt has the decency to look embarrassed and Jaskier kisses his nose. He knows that he’s overdoing it, but he still feels like he’s dreaming. 

“I made many errors that day.” Geralt says quietly. 

“Oh hush, you had sex and you enjoyed yourself.” He rolls his eyes and Geralt subtly shakes his head. 

“No. Your voice.” He begins, looking conflicted. Whatever he’s thinking seems important, so Jaskier bites his tongue until the Witcher is ready to continue. “I like it.”

“I knew it!” Grinning, Jaskier rewards him with a soft press of lips. “I knew then and there we were friends. Well, not at the lake because you were an absolute grump. But when you took me straight to find a healer.” He’d been terrified of losing his voice and dying, but Geralt has been there. He’d gone to great lengths to find a cure for Jaskier despite refusing to acknowledge they were even friends. 

“You never told me you felt this way.” Geralt says. There’s a question somewhere in there. Jaskier’s still learning how to read between the lines after being out of practice for a year, but he thinks he understands. 

“I did tell you, once.” He sighs. “I asked you to be my bodyguard while I played in Calanthe’s court. I said that maybe someone out there would want you. You told me you didn’t want anyone needing you…”

“And yet here we are…” Geralt echoes the past perfectly and his brows crease. “I thought I was misunderstanding you.”

“Well, we know I have the brains and the beauty in this and you have the brawn,” Jaskier teases. Rolling his eyes, Geralt kisses his forehead and draws him close into his chest. Jaskier doesn’t protest, yawning and snuggling happily into his hold. They’ve still got a few days before they reach Kaer Morhen, but this is to be the last town before they reach the keep. He has no idea what to expect, but he’s excited for the days to come. 

-

The famous Witcher’s keep is like nothing Jaskier was expecting. It’s not a pile of ruins, falling into disrepair and covered in vines. No, quite the opposite. It looks barren, perhaps, with no one manning the gates and no one keeping watch from above. But judging by the tense set in Geralt’s shoulders and the way he keeps close to Jaskier and Ciri, they must not be alone. Jaskier doesn’t know what to do, so he keeps a half step behind Geralt and peeks around him to see the courtyard. The man guides them to the stables where other mares are waiting and leaves Roach in one of the stalls. He takes his time stripping her of her gear and Jaskier waits with Ciri, trying not to smile as she shifts restlessly. 

“Do you think they’re all like Geralt?” She asks with a small huff, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“Darling, no one is like Geralt.” Jaskier says fondly. The man in question grunts, reminding them that he can hear every word. “I’m sure they’re far more talkative and friendly.” He adds with a cheerful wink. 

“Are there any girls?” Ciri asks, turning back toward Geralt. 

“Just you,” he says. There’s an edge to his tone that Jaskier cannot read and he senses a story there. Something dark and painful that the other man wants to keep hidden. 

“Why couldn’t Yennefer come? I liked her,” Ciri says with a frown. 

“Because she and Jaskier would have killed each other.” Geralt answers with a soft snort. 

“Rude!” Jaskier cries, flinging his palm up and clutching at his chest. 

“Do you deny it?” Geralt’s head turns, one brow lifted, and a blush colors Jaskier’s cheeks. He doesn’t answer, shoulders slumping as he kicks at the dirt. 

“Geralt.” A warm voice makes Jaskier lift his head in surprise. He finds an older man with graying hair approaching them, a soft smile on his face as he looks at Ciri. “You must be Cirilla,” he says gently. He stops a few feet away and Ciri and Jaskier both look to Geralt for answers.

“Vesemir.” Geralt sounds almost happy in that moment and Jaskier can’t help but smile. “Eskel and Lambert, too?” He asks. 

“And Coën sent word just last week, he’ll be here by tomorrow night.” The man nods. “Staying for the winter?”

“And for Ciri to be trained.” Geralt says. Vesemir nods in understanding, something Jaskier himself doesn’t quite get. 

“Your room is ready for you. I’ll prepare another for your friend.” 

“That won’t be necessary.” Geralt says, eyes flitting to Jaskier briefly. Vesemir doesn’t say anything, but Jaskier is pretty certain that he’s blushing enough for the older Witcher to connect the dots. 

“I’ll get more food prepared and meet you in the dining hall then.” Vesemir says. By the time Jaskier manages to get his tongue working properly, the older man is walking from the stable and up a set of stairs. 

“I didn’t even get to introduce myself!” Jaskier huffs. 

“You’re the one with manners,” Geralt reminds. 

“Who was that man and how did he know me?” Ciri demands. 

“I sent word to him that I would be bringing you here when we first found one another. He trained me here, just as I will train you.” Geralt explains. He picks up the saddle bags and hands a couple to Jaskier before exiting the stall with the rest in his arms. “Follow me.” 

Jaskier wants to know how many stories are within these walls. He knows they’ve been rebuilt after an attack on the keep, but he wonders about the pupils that were trained. What had Geralt been like as a child? What about the other Witcher’s? How old was Vesemir that his age was finally beginning to show? A million questions burned at the tip of his tongue and he swallowed them down, telling himself that he’d get answers later if he could. He followed Geralt into one of the towers. On the second level, Geralt stopped and opened a door to reveal a small bedroom. He gestures Ciri inside and she goes to the bed, setting down her things. 

“This is mine? But where will you be?” She asks, raising a brow. 

“The top of the stairs. Jaskier will be with me. We’ll be going to eat in just a minute.” Geralt tells her. 

“Wait here and we’ll come back and grab you,” Jaskier promises. 

“Who is on the first floor then?” Ciri asks, frowning. 

“Vesemir.” Geralt answers, taking Jaskier by the wrist. “We’ll be right back.” He adds over his shoulder before tugging him from the room. Jaskier is all too eager to follow, a bounce in his step as they ascend the remainder of the stairs. He lets Geralt push the doors open and steps through then, eyes going wide as he takes in the large room. 

There’s a double set of doors across the room that he suspects lead to a balcony of some sort. In the middle of the room is an octagonal table with three ornately decorated chairs surrounding it, resting on a beautiful rug. Next to it is a series of pillars surrounding a fire pit with a bench a couple of feet away. The bookshelves along the far wall are filled to the brim with leather bound collections stacked haphazardly. There are a few chests and trunks lining the walls, no doubt filled with some of Geralt’s belongings. Jaskier wonders what sort of things the Witcher keeps here, but he’ll have time to explore later. He’s far more interested in the large bed across the room and the sheets that look inviting. 

“Stop that,” Geralt growls as he closes the door and snakes his arms around Jaskier from behind. 

“I didn’t do anything!” He protests, leaning back heavily against the other man. 

“I can smell it on you,” Geralt hums, nose skimming his throat. “There’ll be time for that later.”

“Are you propositioning me?” Jaskier asks, rubbing himself back against the Witcher. “Because I’ll have you know-“ The saddle bags are yanked from his fingers and he’s turned, flush against Geralt’s chest as the man claims his mouth for a scorching kiss. His knees go weak and he fists the back of Geralt’s shirt, opening his mouth to moan. A skilled tongue dances past his lips and he sucks on it, heat building in his gut as Geralt palms his ass. “Fuck,” Jaskier gasps as they break apart. “Fuck, Geralt-“

“I know,” the Witcher groans and offers another toe curling kiss. 

“I want you to fuck me,” Jaskier whines. He drops his head against Geralt’s shoulder and inhales shakily. “How am I supposed to go and have dinner now?” He asks, flexing his hold on Geralt. 

“We promised Ciri.” Geralt groans and drops his head against Jaskier’s. “I will make this up to you.”

“You’re horrible, you are. They’ll be able to smell what we were up to and I’m going to die of embarrassment.” Jaskier says. He loosens his fingers and steps back, running his fingers back through his hair. “You’re a menace, Geralt of Rivia.”

“Only when you tempt me.” Geralt has the audacity to smirk and Jaskier swats him across the chest. He grabs the bags and carries them over to the bed, gulping down air as he puts distance between himself and Geralt. He tries to think of the most unsexy things imaginable, like Yennefer naked. Wrinkling his nose, he gives himself another moment to compose himself before he joins Geralt again at the door. 

The walk to retrieve Ciri is quiet and Jaskier feels heat rise in his belly. Try as he might, he can’t completely dislodge the thought of sharing a bed with Geralt and _finally_ getting under his armor and clothing. He’s seen Geralt naked dozens of times, but this will be different. This will be the most intimate they’ve ever been together and as nervous as that makes Jaskier, it excites him just as much. Geralt turns to flash a warning look over his shoulder, nostrils flaring, and a warm blush coats his cheeks and spreads down his chest. Merciless gods, he isn’t going to survive dinner with the other Witchers. 

Vesemir is sitting with two other men when they enter the dining hall. The first could be mistaken for Geralt’s brother, minus the darker brown hair and the long scar across his face. It starts from the corner of his lips and spreads along his cheek, going up to his ear. He’s holding a cup of ale, or at least that’s what Jaskier hopes it is. Gods, he needs a drink. The other man has longer dark hair as well and a scar diagonal across his right temple, going from hairline to eyebrow. They both look amused as the trio approach and the one with the forehead scar grins lecherously and leans across the table. 

“I wouldn’t have let you come downstairs if you smelled like that for me, bard.” He comments, lifting his mug to drink deeply from it. 

“Lambert,” Vesemir says as Geralt growls. Jaskier puts a hand on his arm and squeezes lightly, his cheeks flush as he takes a seat at the long table. 

“How did you know I’m a bard?” He asks as Geralt sits between him and Vesemir, Ciri settling on his other side. 

“Don’t be daft,” Lambert snorts. “What else could you be?” He gestures at Jaskier’s clothing and okay, perhaps it’s a fair assumption since Jaskier still chooses to dress in bright colors instead of black like Geralt. “Everyone knows about Geralt and his traveling bard.” There’s an edge of bitterness there and Jaskier squirms uncomfortably. Gods, he needs a drink. 

“The name is…” he hesitates a moment, trying to determine what he’d prefer. Julian has been his preferred name recently, but… He glances up to find Geralt watching him for an answer as well. Geralt had said it himself. Jaskier was no less a bard than Geralt was a Witcher. Perhaps he needed to take ownership of that once again. 

“Jaskier,” Ciri says impatiently. “And I’m Princess Cirilla.” 

“Just Ciri,” Geralt grunts. She shoots him an annoyed look and Jaskier is grateful that he’s between the two of them. 

“I’m Eskel and that thickheaded moron is Lambert.” The other man says with a slight smile. “It’s good to see you all made it safely.”

“Almost didn’t a few times,” Geralt admits. Jaskier’s jaw goes slack with the confession and Lambert grins. 

“Oh? Someone almost bested the mighty White Wolf?” He asks. 

“There’ll be time for that later.” Vesemir cuts in, sparing a glance at Ciri. He slides three bowls of stew down the table along with two mugs for Jaskier and Ciri. For Geralt, he grabs a different mug that smells strongly of spirits. Pouting, Jaskier picks up his spoon and takes a bite of his supper. Warmth and spice flood his mouth and he nearly groans, wondering when he’s last had something this delicious. 

“I cooked it,” Lambert says. He sounds pleased and Jaskier thanks him, pretending he doesn’t notice the way that Geralt tenses. 

Dinner with the other men is a strange affair. A lot of the conversation dances around Ciri and Lambert throws compliments at Jaskier that make Geralt rumble with displeasure. He keeps his thigh pressed to his Witcher’s beneath the table, carrying on conversation with Eskel and Vesemir as best as he can. They dance around all troubles on the road until Ciri announces that she’s tired. Geralt takes her to the bedroom and Jaskier stays, his heart thundering in his chest as Geralt leaves him alone. He could have gone, but he wants to prove that he isn’t afraid of these men. And he’s not. Not because of what they are, at least, but because they are still strangers. 

“So, little lark, how did you manage to convince Geralt to let you travel with him?” Lambert props his chin on his hand and leans his elbow into the table. 

“I think I just annoyed him until I wormed my way into his good graces.” Jaskier admits. Lambert hums and reaches for his cup of spirits, sliding it across the table. 

“Try this,” he encourages. Jaskier glances at Eskel and Vesemir, but he picks up the drink and takes a swallow. It’s an instant regret. He coughs as the drink burns his throat, leaving him wanting the water which he’s already emptied. 

“What the _fuck_ was in that?” He asks, wrinkling his nose and sliding it back. Lambert shakes with laughter, sounding like a barking dog. 

“We can’t get drunk as easily as others, so we need a little extra.” Eskel explains with a roll of his eyes. Before Lambert can take his mug, Jaskier snatches it back and regards it curiously. If this can get him drunk quicker…

Pinching his nose, he gulps greedily from the mug until it’s mostly emptied. Lambert’s laughter dies as he stares in disbelief and Jaskier slaps the now empty mug against the table, beaming. “Oh, this’ll be fun. Geralt will kill us,” Eskel mutters. Jaskier can feel the warmth settling in his stomach despite the godawful taste and he smiles, immensely pleased with himself. 

“Geralt needs to let his little lark have some fun,” Lambert snickers. “Since clearly he leaves him wanting anyways.” Jaskier thinks back to the first words the other Witcher had said and his ears burn in mortification. 

“Are you always this crude?” Jaskier asks. 

“Only when it comes to Geralt and his things.” Lambert flashes a wicked grin. “How he didn’t manage to keep you in that bedroom, I’ll never know. I certainly wouldn’t have let you wander around smelling like lust. I’d have had my way with you, little lark.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Geralt growls from behind Jaskier. He jolts as the Witcher takes a seat beside him, a lopsided grin forming. 

“You’re back!” 

“What did you give him?” Geralt all but growls a second time. 

“He drank my entire drink in one go.” Lambert says, sounding far too pleased. 

“It was disgusting.” Jaskier confirms, dropping his head onto Geralt’s shoulder with a small pout. “I don’t see how you can stand things like that. I want another.” He doesn’t feel nearly drunk enough yet and that has to change. 

“No,” Geralt says. Lambert ignores him and refills his mug, sliding it down the table. Geralt grabs it first and Jaskier reaches for it with another pout. 

“That’s mine!”

“Jaskier,” Geralt warns. 

“Lambert poured it just for me, Geralt. I can’t be rude. You said earlier I was the one with manners,” he reminds. 

“It’s not like it will kill him,” Eskel points out. With a scowl, Geralt starts to shove the mug back to Lambert. Jaskier scrambles to grab it, crowing his victory and clutching it to his chest despite Geralt’s withering look. 

“You don’t get to hog the fun, Geralt!” He takes a huge gulp and grimaces again from the bitter taste. “Oh gods, I think I’ve burned off my taste buds.” He mourns before taking another deep drink. 

“Let him have his fun, Geralt.” Lambert does a poor mimic of Jaskier’s voice that should really insult him, but he’s already starting to relax. 

“If he wants to drink and stay, let him.” Vesemir says. Jaskier wonders if he were meant to fuck off once he’d finished eating, but no one suggests that. Instead, everyone rises from the table with their drinks and starts toward a fireplace on the other end of the room. Geralt helps Jaskier to his feet and follows the others, casting Igni at the wood and bringing a roaring fire to life. Beaming, Jaskier sits on the floor as close as he can get. He feels Geralt settle behind him and leans back between his legs, tilting his head to look up at him. Geralt wears a sort of fond look that makes heat flood Jaskier and he licks his lips. 

“Don’t start,” Geralt warns. He brings up one hand and rubs it into Jaskier’s shoulder, kneading the muscle to where it meets the side of his neck. 

“Oh, you’re absolutely gone for him!” Lambert cries with glee. “The White Wolf of Rivia, tamed by a bard. Now _there_ is a song worth singing. Jaskier, you should compose one.”

“I can’t,” he says, jutting out his lower lip as he looks at the other man. “I haven’t got my lute.”

“You could compose it later, not right this moment.” Eskel tells him.

“No, no, I don’t have my lute. I sold it. Not much of a bard,” he sighs wistfully. Filavandrel had gifted him the most beautiful instrument and Jaskier tossed it away when things got to be too much. He’s not worthy of the title of bard, not anymore. “Oh.” There’s an ache settling in his chest now, fueled by the spirits he’s imbibed, and he hides his face against Geralt’s knee. 

“Geralt, tell us about your journey here.” Vesemir changes the subject and Jaskier wants to hug the man. Geralt strokes his palm over Jaskier’s head and begins to talk, starting with the fall of Cintra. Jaskier is amazed with how freely Geralt talks around the others. He keeps his mouth shut and props his chin on Geralt’s knee, allowing himself to be pet as Geralt tells the story. He chimes in once or twice to add in details that Geralt misses, like the innkeeper sending him on a wild goose chase that nearly ended with him being drowner chum. Here, for the first time in months, Jaskier feels truly safe. 

He hasn’t realized he’s started nodding off until Geralt shakes him, a fond huff escaping. “Get up, Jaskier.” He says. With an exaggerated and poorly mimicked huff of his own, he tries to get to his feet and ends up falling straight into Geralt’s lap. “You’re drunk,” Geralt sounds amused and Jaskier splits into a grin. 

“I am indeed, Witcher of mine!” 

“If you need any help taking care of him-“ Lambert is cut off by another low rumble from Geralt and Jaskier giggles. 

“As if I would want any other Witcher. No need to growl, love. You’re the one I want.” He pats his hand over Geralt’s chest and lightly boops him on the nose with an index finger. 

“Are we certain he’s not a siren?” Lambert whispers loudly. 

“I am not, I think.” Jaskier frowns slightly and looks at Geralt in consideration. “Unless I am.” He gasps with eyes going wide. “Did the drink change me?!”

“Don’t be daft,” Geralt snorts. He lifts Jaskier from his lap with ease and stands, arm snaring around his waist. With a grunt of goodbye, he guides Jaskier from the dining hall and back to the tower where his room is. Jaskier shivers from the chill of cold air that greets them outside and burrows into Geralt’s side. The tower itself is little warmer at first, but they continue up the stairs and Geralt casts Igni at his fire. Jaskier goes straight to the bench beside it and begins shucking his clothes, extending his hands above the flames. 

“I like your friends,” Jaskier says. “You seem…” he hesitates a moment and glances at Geralt who is stripping his shirt. “Happier, I think.” He finishes meekly. Oh fuck. He’s forgotten all about earlier and Geralt’s promise. Geralt hums and approaches him, sitting down next to him on the bench. 

“I am also happy with you.” Geralt says. It’s admittedly nice to hear, but Jaskier wasn’t fishing for a compliment or throwing an accusation. Geralt looks like he’s truly at home and Jaskier is happy for him. He wants Geralt to always look this way, perfectly at ease without the weight of the world on his shoulders. 

“Are you going to kiss me?” He asks. Apparently part of his brain isn’t caught up with the rest of him. Geralt’s lips curl in amusement and he brushes a tender kiss to Jaskier’s lips before pulling back. “Oh no, you promised me sex.” He whines, attempting to chase the kiss. Geralt’s hands grip at his shoulders and he pouts up at the other man. “Geralt.”

“Not tonight, Jaskier. You’ve had too much to drink.” 

“Gods be damned,” Jaskier hisses to himself. Geralt chuckles and pulls him close, delivering another soft kiss to his lips. 

“There’s still tomorrow,” the Witcher promises. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Fine. But you owe me, Geralt of Rivia.” Jaskier pokes at his chest. Catching his wrist, Geralt pulls him onto his feet and over to the bed. He flips back he covers and Jaskier wriggles his way under them, shivering as he waits for Geralt to join. The added body heat helps and he presses close, their legs tangling as he settles his head against Geralt’s chest. “I think every night should be spent this way,” he muses. 

“Taking care of you when you’re drunk?” Geralt asks, fingers sliding through his hair. 

“Why do you pick now to develop a sense of humor? No,” Jaskier huffs and tilts his head back to find Geralt watching him fondly. “In a soft bed with just you at my side. The warmth of a fire nearby and as little clothing as possible. Preferably none.” He adds with a cheeky grin. 

“Hm.” Geralt kisses his forehead and Jaskier knows that’s the best he will get. Geralt can’t give up monster hunting and roughing it in the woods. He doesn’t mind. They have a winter to spend together and that will give plenty of time for him to start writing a few new songs. Perhaps he’ll venture back to the nearest towns and pick up odd jobs until he can afford a new lute. Closing his eyes, he hums softly and lets himself fall quickly to slumber. 

-

It feels as though someone has beaten a very blunt object against his temples for hours on end. A low moan escapes him and the noise makes him whimper, curling into himself with another pitiful sound. “I’m dying,” he croaks weakly. The bed shifts beneath him, a hand sliding between his shoulder blades, and he turns to curl into Geralt’s side. “Gods, I thought it wouldn’t hurt so much.”

“You aren’t dying,” Geralt tells him. Jaskier wants to argue, but his stomach rolls as he moves and he goes perfectly still. “Maybe next time you’ll only drink the one.” He suggests, stroking back Jaskier’s hair. 

“Never drinking again, Geralt.” They both know that’s a lie, but Geralt doesn’t point it out. 

“I need you to wake up.” Something in Geralt’s tone shifts and Jaskier grimaces, nodding. He sits up as slowly as he can, grateful that his stomach decides not to rebel. A cup of water is pressed into his fingers and he drinks from it, noticing the faint taste of herbs. Something for the pain then. He clutches the cup in his lap and looks up at the other man. He’s dressed for the day already, armor and all. 

“Where are you going?” Jaskier asks. “You’re not...you’re not leaving?”

“Just for a few days with Lambert.” Geralt lightly cups his cheek, holding his gaze. “There’s a bruxa that will fetch good coin south of here.”

“Why can’t Lambert handle it alone?” Jaskier complains. 

“Vesemir asked me to go, not him.” Geralt says. It takes a moment for Jaskier’s brain to catch up. 

“You don’t want me alone with him!”

“No. I don’t.” Geralt admits gruffly. 

“You’re not jealous, are you? Because no one will ever hold a candle to you, my darling.” Jaskier lifts one hand to cover Geralt’s. He turns his head and presses a kiss to the palm of his hand and squeezes their fingers together. “It was just a bit of harmless flirting, no doubt to rile you up.”

“I don’t want the two of you being stupid and reckless while I am not here.” Geralt explains with a slight frown. “We’ll be back in just a few days time. Stay out of trouble, Jaskier. I mean it.” He leans forward, pressing a chaste kiss to Jaskier’s lips and leaving him wanting for more. 

“I’ll be with Vesemir and Eskel, Geralt. How much trouble can I get into?” Jaskier asks with a smile. Rolling his eyes, Geralt kisses him again before getting up from the bed. “Be careful, Geralt. Come back to me in one piece.” It’s an unfair request, but Geralt nods anyway and kisses him one last time. Jaskier sighs from the loss as cool fingers fall away from his cheek. With a press of lips to his forehead, Geralt leaves him in the middle of an empty bed and he closes his eyes as the door swings shut.

As it turns out, there is apparently a _lot_ of trouble Jaskier can get into on his own. It’s not his fault that watching Eskel and Vesemir train Ciri is boring. He tries to be a good audience, but after the first hour there’s an itch under his skin that he can’t quite scratch. He holes himself up in Geralt’s room and tries to write, but the music doesn’t come as easy as he’d hoped and so he tosses his book uselessly onto the bed. He can still hear the clang of swords in the courtyard before and so he walks onto the balcony, breathing in the cool air. He leans against the wall and looks down at Ciri and Eskel, a fond smile appearing as he watches them practice.

He should take the opportunity to explore the grounds. The sky above them is beginning to darken and he can practically taste the storm that’s brewing in the air. He hopes Geralt and Lambert will manage to stay dry for the evening. He knows that the men cannot catch cold as ordinary humans, but that’s never stopped him from worrying. He also hopes that Geralt isn’t giving Lambert a hard time. He knows the Witcher has become increasingly protective over the last few weeks, but Lambert is family and Jaskier isn’t. When they return, he’s going to make certain that Geralt understands that. And then he’s going to drag him to bed and make sure Geralt spends proper time taking him apart. 

He pushes back from the wall and turns, taking a step toward the open door. The toe of his boot catches on an uneven stone and he falls sideways, hitting the wall of bricks with a grunt. The one he’s leaning against moves and he’s suddenly falling, a startled cry tearing from his throat as he begins to fall. He claws at the vines during his descent, trying desperately to catch himself, and one snares around his ankle and stops his fall. “Fuck!” Jaskier can feel the blood rushing to his head and he wraps his fingers around the thick ivy, shuddering as he looks down. He can see Ciri just below him, a look of horror on her face. Her mouth is open and she must be shouting, but he can’t hear a word of it over the pounding of his heart in his throat. 

“Oh, fuck it all!” Jaskier cries. He’s going to be done in by a collapsing balcony and Geralt isn’t even here to mock him for it. He’s tempted fate for far too long. It isn’t fair! He’s only just started to find happiness again and has Geralt at the tips of his fingers. “Is this because I didn’t tell him the truth?!” He yells to the wind. “I’ll tell him everything when he returns if you let me live!” He’s not sure what force he’s pleading with, but it must be listening. He feels a hand around his ankle and a knife begins to cut away the vines holding him. “No, don’t drop me!” He cries, clinging tighter. 

“Let go, Jaskier.” Vesemir says from above him. “Eskel will catch you in the window below!” Jaskier chances a glance back down and finds the other Witcher leaning out Ciri’s window, nodding in reassurance. 

“Bollocks,” Jaskier whispers before he lets go. He doesn’t even have a chance to scream before Eskel catches him, hauling him through the window with a grunt. They topple against the floor and Jaskier practically sobs with relief, his heart throbbing in his chest as he kisses the floor. 

“No wonder Geralt said to keep an eye on you,” Eskel says as he heaves himself up from the floor. Jaskier barely gets his upper body off the ground before Ciri is throwing her arms around him, her face wet as she squeezes him tight. 

“Oh, Jas! I was so worried!” She cries, burying her face against his neck. He hugs her fiercely and presses close, rubbing his hand up and down her back in a soothing manner. 

“Nothing to worry about, sweetheart. You don’t think I’ll die that easily, do you?” He kisses the side of her head and glances at the doorway. Vesemir and Eskel are speaking in low tones and casting shadowed glances his way, making Jaskier tense. Fuck. They’d heard his pleas to the gods then. He’d have to explain himself before they suspected that he was lying to Geralt about something serious. “Later,” he whispers, knowing that they’ll hear him. 

It isn’t until that evening that he gets the opportunity to speak with the pair alone. Dinner is a quiet affair and Ciri is sent to bed early, leaving Jaskier with the other two men. He follows them to the fireplace and waits for the flames to come to life before he sits, exhaling shakily. “It’s not as bad as you think,” he tells them. 

“We’ll be the judges of that,” Eskel says. 

“He told me that he didn’t know I was in Cintra when it fell. I said I didn’t want him to know. One of many lies over the weeks, I’m afraid.” Jaskier twists his hands, leaning his elbows against his knees and bending forward. “Nothing important. Just...little things. Things that I didn’t think mattered.”

“It’s not about your blood?” Vesemir asks. Jaskier’s frown deepens and he lifts his gaze, brows knitting together. 

“What about my blood?” He asks warily. 

“That you’re not human.” Eskel rolls his eyes and Jaskier can’t help but laugh. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“That’s not what you’ve been lying to him about?” Now Eskel sounds confused. 

“What do you think I am?” He asks, thinking back to the night before. “That drink did something?”

“Gods, maybe he really is thick.” Eskel mutters. 

“Oi!” Jaskier straightens up and regrets it, feeling a twinge in his side. “I am human, gentlemen.”

“Mostly.” Vesemir agrees. 

“You really don’t know? Is that even possible?” Eskel turns to the older Witcher and they hold a silent conversation with their eyes. 

“I really don’t have the slightest idea as to what you’re talking about.” Jaskier feels a prickle of unease run down his spine. Perhaps he shouldn’t have let Geralt leave him. 

“What do you know about your parents?” Vesemir turns back to him. 

“My father is a bastard and my mother died.” He answers in a clipped tone. 

“Both human?” Vesemir presses. 

“As far as I’m aware. What are you not telling me?” He squints in suspicion and Eskel clears his throat.

“We thought you knew. The smell of your blood, it’s different.” Eskel gestures toward the scrape on Jaskier’s forehead. 

“Different how?”

“The blood of elves runs through your veins.” Vesemir says. And that...that is the most ridiculous thing that Jaskier has ever heard. Because if that was true, he would know. Filavandrel, king of the elves, would have said something to him. Right? And if the other Witcher’s smelled something strange in his blood, why wouldn’t Geralt have said something?

“You’re wrong.” He says weakly. 

“Fuck.” Eskel gets up and strides across the room. Jaskier startles when a mug is pressed into his hands, filled to the brim with the spirits that he’d imbibed the night before. “You...really didn’t know?”

“Not in the faintest.” Jaskier whispers, staring down at the liquid. “Fuck it.” He downs the drink and ignores the burn in his throat, swallowing until every drop is gone. Eskel takes the mug from his fingers and he doesn’t argue, clasping his hands back together and bending between his knees. “I imagine if you know it, then so does Geralt.” And fuck. Why had the other man never said anything about it? Why had no one clued in Jaskier?

“If he doesn’t, he’s a moron.” Eskel murmurs. “We thought you hadn’t told him. That…”

“That I was promising to tell the truth about my bloodline that I didn’t know about. Afraid not. Just white lies that don’t mean much in the grand scheme of things.” But they did. How many times he had promised he was fine while trembling like a leaf on the inside? “Ah, fuck.”

“Since when did we start taking in strays?” A new voice booms across the dining room. Jaskier barely suppresses a surprised yelp as his head snaps up, zeroing in on the man walking toward them. 

“Coën! Thought you might have gotten lost,” Eskel teases. The new Witcher laughs at that and takes a seat, glancing at Jaskier curiously. The bard doesn’t mind in the slightest, studying him with equal intensity. His eyes, while similar to Geralt’s, look bloodshot and sharper. He’s grown a thick beard and the top of his head has a tiny fuzz network of hair that’s beginning to grow. If it weren’t for the eyes, Jaskier wouldn’t have been able to tell he was a Witcher. It was hard to remember that Geralt’s gorgeous white hair was his own trademark and was not a commonality. 

“Didn’t know we were housing elves now,” Coën comments. Jaskier lets out a pitiful whine and shifts his attention to Vesemir, lower lip jutting out. 

“Does _everyone_ know except me?” He laments. Oh, he’s going to be having words with Geralt later. Several. When they aren’t tearing each other's clothes off. 

“This must be Geralt’s bard.” Coën tilts his head and leans forward, resting his elbows against his knees. “Where is the bastard?”

“Rude!” Jaskier cries, straightening up to defend Geralt’s honor. “I also have a name! Jaskier!”

“Relax, bardling.” Eskel’s lips twitch in amusement. “He took Lambert to go hunt a bruxa. Should be back in a day or two. How’s the road?”

“Cold and miserable. Would have camped for the night, but I knew it was only a few more hours to get here.” He explains. 

“I’ll get you something to eat.” Vesemir stands and claps him on the shoulder, a soft smile appearing before he walks away. Jaskier bites his tongue until the older man leaves and turns to Eskel, chewing his lip. 

“Geralt is...nothing like the rest of you. I thought it was a Witcher thing…” he begins hesitantly. 

“Geralt’s always gotten the short end of the stick. He’s quiet and withdrawn because humanity has not been kind to us. Everyone adapts differently to it. But here we are welcome with open arms and we are safe from judgment and discontent.” Eskel explains patiently. Jaskier nods and drums his fingers against his thigh, nodding toward the mug he’d taken earlier. 

“Can I-“

“Gods, no. Geralt might actually kill us if he thinks you’ve been drunk his entire absence.” Eskel snorts. 

“You’re no fun,” Jaskier tells him. 

“How long have you been traveling with Geralt?” Coën inquires. 

“Oh, just for the last few weeks. We had a year long parting and before that, two decades off and on again.” Jaskier smiles slightly as he thinks back to the earlier days. 

“Why the parting for so long?”

“We had a bit of a...a fight, I guess you’d say. Geralt blamed me for a lot of what was happening at the time and for the past. He was having a bad day.” Jaskier closes his eyes against the memory and takes a deep breath. “After that, I went to Cintra and became Princess Cirilla’s tutor in music. Was there until the castle fell. Geralt saved me a few weeks later from a rough situation and we’ve been together ever since.”

“And how long as lovers?” Coën asks. His eyes shoot open, a blush staining his cheeks, but the Witcher doesn’t bat a lash. 

“I-I wouldn’t say that…” he stammers out. Fuck, why hadn’t he and Geralt talked about this? Is he supposed to deny their relationship? What exactly are they? 

“Geralt thinks he hung the moon and stars,” Eskel chuckles. And _that_ takes Jaskier by complete surprise and his jaw goes slack. It’s the complete opposite and he knows that for a fact. He’s just Jaskier, a troublesome bard who shoots off his mouth at the most inconvenient of times. But Geralt...Geralt _is_ the moon and stars. He’s more than a little terrified by that realization. 

“I...gentlemen.” Jaskier clears his throat and stands unsteadily just as Vesemir returns to the room. “I should be off to bed. Early morning and all,” he says as he side steps around the men. 

“You don’t have anything to do,” Eskel snorts. 

“He’ll train with Ciri.” Vesemir says with a quick nod to Jaskier. 

“Er...right! That’s exactly what I’ll be doing.” Jaskier flashes a blinding smile and turns on his heel, beating a hasty retreat back to Geralt’s room. He is utterly fucked. 

-

“Fuck!” Geralt swings his sword just past Lambert’s shoulder. The other man ducks under his outstretched arm and weaves expertly around him, flipping his dagger in hand and sliding it deep into the chest of the bruxa that had surged up behind Geralt. He focuses on the one that’s caught on the blade of his sword, screeching and clawing like mad to free herself. With a sharp jerk upward, he silences the sounds as he splits the upper half of the monster. Blood splatters across his face and trickles down his sword, staining his fingers and slithering up his arm. 

“Wish they’d told us this was a fucking nest.” Lambert grumbles. He kneels down to retrieve his dagger and Geralt plants a boot against his lower back, sprawling him across the floor. He impales the bruxa that emerges from the shadows and yanks his sword free again with a low growl. “Could have said something.” Lambert says bitterly. Grunting, Geralt extends a hand to lift him up and listens carefully. There’s no more rustling in the shadows and all he can smell is the copper taint of blood and the stench of death. 

“We should go.” He says as Lambert hacks off the heads of the bruxae. There’s eight in total and Geralt hopes that the multiple heads will mean more coin. It’s wishful thinking considering how rarely he gets paid the promised amount, but he needs it. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Lambert shoves a few of the heads in his direction and he takes them by the hair, dropping his arm to let them dangle at his side. Roach and Lambert’s mare, a gorgeous dapple gray called Shadow, are stamping impatiently as their riders emerge from the cave. Geralt presses his forehead to Roach’s neck with a soft murmur before he secures the heads to her saddle bags and they begin their trek back toward town. He’s eager to wash the blood from his fingertips and by Lambert’s scowl, he’s not alone in the feeling. 

“What do you think they’re up to in the keep?” Lambert asks, cocking his head and glancing over Roach to see Geralt. 

“Training Ciri.” Geralt hums. He doesn’t know what Jaskier is doing to keep himself entertained, but he hopes the bard is staying out of trouble. He’s undoubtedly rifled through all of Geralt’s belongings by now. There’s nothing to hide. It’s sets of clothing most likely covered in dust, a few weapons he no longer carries, and a few notebooks of his own that detail the beasts he’s killed and the quickest ways to dispatch them. The knowledge is ingrained in his head, but on nights when he’d been restless in the past he’d taken to writing all of Vesemir’s teachings. He doesn’t have secrets hiding there and he’s sure Jaskier will be disappointed by that. 

“Your bard any good with a weapon?” Lambert asks curiously. Geralt’s mind flashes back to the bandit drawing his last breath from Jaskier’s blade slipped between his ribs. The corner of his lips tug up and he nods, glancing over at his fellow Witcher. 

“He’s improving. Still a lot to learn though.” They’ll need to work on physical combat and other weapons. Geralt doesn’t think he’ll ever believe Jaskier is ready for a fight but not because he hasn’t proven himself capable. No, Geralt doesn’t want to ever picture the bard in a dangerous situation where Geralt can’t protect him. He’d spent nearly two decades shielding the other man and old habits will die hard. 

“He’ll learn.” Lambert says. With another hum, Geralt inclines his head and they continue on their path. It doesn’t take long to reach the village and deposit the heads of their hunt to the innkeeper who’d hired them. Surprisingly, they’re paid nearly triple the agreed upon price and Geralt knows Jaskier is part of the reason for it. The village has never been as unkind as others toward Witcher’s due to their proximity to the keep, but there’s always been a healthy dose of fear and uncertainty. Over the years that has chipped away and he thanks Jaskier and his ridiculous songs for it. People actually thank him for his services after a hunt. Not always, but far more frequently than they had before the bard had entered his life. Geralt can never repay that debt. 

They retire to their room for the night and Geralt gets a cloth, scrubbing the blood from his arm and face as best as he can. Lambert does the same in his corner of the room, muttering to himself about a good bath once they’re back at the keep. Geralt hums his agreement and thinks fondly of the bard waiting for him. His bath is certainly large enough for two and he’ll gladly take the excuse to have a wet and squirming Jaskier in his lap. A bloodied damp rag smacks against his arm and he looks up, frowning at Lambert.

“No,” the other man points sternly at him. “You are not going to fantasize about your bard playing nursemaid with you.”

“I wasn’t.” Geralt replies, a slow smirk spreading. “I was thinking about a bath.”

“Fuck off.”

-

It’s mid afternoon on the third day when Geralt returns. Jaskier wants to stop and greet him, but Eskel’s got a dangerous glint in his eye. He surges forward with his blade and Jaskier rolls as Vesemir taught, ducking to the side and springing up while still facing his opponent. It had taken nearly an hour to get the move practiced and refined. It’s not perfect by any means, but it’s a damn sight better than the first time he’d sprawled across the courtyard and ended up tearing skin from his wrist and adding an abrasion to his cheek. 

“Not bad for a bard.” Eskel tells him, securing his blade at his waist. “Go on then.” Jaskier doesn’t need to be told twice. He scrambles toward the stables and finds Geralt covering his saddle bags with his cloak. Undeterred, he wraps his arms around the Witcher from behind and squeezes tightly. 

“Missed you,” he breathes between Geralt’s shoulder blades. 

“I think I deserve a greeting like that.” Lambert says from his horse's stall, grinning wickedly. Jaskier rolls his eyes and waits for Geralt to turn in his arms. There’s a fondness in his gaze that makes Jaskier go weak in the knees and he leans up, pressing a warm kiss to an icy cheek. 

“Easy trip?” Jaskier asks, scanning the pair of them. 

“Not even a scratch on us.” Lambert confirms. “Eight bruxae. Got paid pretty nicely for it.” He smirks at Geralt and Jaskier frowns, feeling like he’s missing something. Geralt huffs through his nose and frees himself from Jaskier, unsecuring his saddle bags. Jaskier reaches for the cloak to help and his hand is lightly knocked away. 

“Come on.” Geralt says. “Lambert-“

“Yeah, I’ll finish with Roach.” The other Witcher waves them off and Jaskier falls into step beside Geralt, nerves flooding his stomach. They walk in silence up to Geralt’s room and he opens the door quickly, watching as the other carries his bags to the bed. Depositing them with a surprising amount of care, Geralt gestures him closer and sits him on the edge of the bed. 

“Jaskier-“ he begins. 

“I didn’t know I was an elf!” He blurts out. Frowning, Geralt’s eyebrows knit together and he nods his head slowly. 

“I know-“

“And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you but how could I tell you when I didn’t know? I never would have written that godforsaken song if I had known. Oh gods, Filavandrel probably heard it and thinks I’m mocking-“

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s firm tone cuts through his rambling and he draws in a breath. The Witcher kneels in front of him, planting both hands on his shoulders. “Why are you nervous?” 

“I…” The words don’t come nearly as easily as he’d hoped. He’d been prepared to spill every secret and thought to Geralt to keep his promise, but now the words stick uncomfortably to his tongue. Because it will mean admitting a lot of things that they haven’t discussed and it will also mean explaining to Geralt that he’d nearly died taking a tumble over the balcony. Frankly, he’s not sure which is more terrifying. 

“Jaskier.” Geralt says his name far more gently than he has any right to. He moves one hand to cup Jaskier’s cheek and he leans into the touch, soaking it in. “What happened?”

“I...well...you see…” he begins quietly. Geralt hums in response and he lets out a weak laugh. “It’s silly. I might have taken a small tumblefromthebalcony.” His ears burn as he rushes the words out. Geralt’s eyebrow twitches. 

“What.”

“I was just watching Ciri practice in the courtyard below and I turned and hit a stone and fell and the wall crumbled and I pleaded with the gods to save me and I’d tell you everything and Vesemir and Eskel thought I was talking about the elf thing but I had no idea and Coën knew immediately too and that’s just not fair-“ He's cut off by a pair of chapped lips touching his own and he swears that his brain switches off. Geralt pulls back with a look of fond exasperation and settles his other hand on the side of Jaskier’s neck. 

“Only you could find trouble surrounded by Witchers.” He says. “You’re not hurt.” It’s not a question, but Jaskier answers with a shake of his head. “Good.” He feels Geralt brush over his pulse and briefly closes his eyes. “What did you want to tell me?” The patience in his voice makes Jaskier calm again and he manages a soft but sad smile. 

“I didn’t tell you the truth. About why I stopped playing the lute and...and that I didn’t want you knowing I was in Cintra.” He admits in a small voice. Geralt doesn’t say anything, his expression giving nothing away, and Jaskier plucks up the courage to continue on. “I sent word as soon as there were rumors about the armies approaching. I told myself after the mountain that I’d never ask for your help again, but I was terrified. I didn’t want to die.” He sucks in a breath and Geralt guides his head down so their foreheads can touch. “But I heard nothing back. Figured you didn’t care if I died.” It hurts to say the words aloud, but he needs to set them free. 

“I didn’t get the message.” Geralt tells him. “Calanthe had me imprisoned when I arrived to take Ciri to protect her.” Jaskier’s eyes widen and he pulls back, studying Geralt’s tired expression. 

“I didn’t know.”

“I know that now.” Geralt lightly squeezes the side of his neck. “What else? The lute?”

“Ah. Right. I... _might_ have been overreacting when I sold it.” Geralt snorts softly at that and Jaskier huffs. “I was hurting, you brute.”

“Why? The song?” Geralt has apparently paid more attention than Jaskier had thought to give credit for. He nods and drops his gaze, grinning sheepishly. 

“I kept thinking of you and Yennefer and I couldn’t bear it. I’d written a rather depressing ballad and it was playing over and over again in my head. I needed it to stop.” He feels quite like a child in that moment, but Geralt doesn’t say anything. He withdraws his hands and gets to his feet, walking around the bed to his bags. 

“Close your eyes,” he instructs. Jaskier follows the command without hesitation and listens to the rustling of fabric. He hears Geralt walk in front of him again and something wooden is pressed into his hands. His hands adjust on instinct and his eyes open to fall on the most beautiful lute that he’s ever seen. There are flowers carved with great care on the body of the instrument and he traces his fingers along a dandelion that’s coming apart, the seeds leaving a scattered trail up the neck of the lute. 

“Geralt…” his throat feels tight as he admires the lovely instrument. It takes a moment longer to gaze up at the man he loves. “This is...this is too much.”

“It’s not enough.” The words hold a deeper meaning and Jaskier frowns, trying to understand. He thinks back over the last several weeks of his journey with Geralt and Ciri. From the very first day, Geralt’s attitude toward him had been different. Softer. He’d allowed Jaskier to ride Roach and offered his bed roll and body warmth across numerous nights. He’d appeared absolutely shocked that Jaskier had wanted to repay his debts and he hadn’t understood why. The daggers had been an exquisite gift and now he’s holding another that is far out of Geralt’s typical price range or level of comfort. It’s almost like…

“Oh,” he breathes out. Geralt frowns at him and Jaskier gets up, carefully setting the lute on the bed. “Geralt, my love.” He whispers as he steps forward and places both hands on his cheeks. “You’ve already been forgiven.”

-

The words shake something loose in Geralt and he feels like he can breathe properly. Wordlessly, he tilts his head and claims Jaskier’s lips in a simmering kiss. The bard lets out a needy whine and Geralt presses him down against the bed, hovering over him with a fond smirk. He’s hauled in by the straps of his armor and he doesn’t complain as Jaskier kisses him hard. It’s all teeth and tongues and fire and Geralt can’t get enough. 

Slim hips rise against his own and he grinds down with a low grunt, snatching up the whimper falling from Jaskier. He can feel the frantic fingertips scrabbling at the straps of his armor and he laughs, grinning in amusement as Jaskier breaks the kiss to glower at him. With an indignant huff, Jaskier rolls them to the side and Geralt steadies him with rough hands gripping at his hips. His waist is squeezed by Jaskier and his armor is attacked with renewed vigor, falling away piece by piece. He doesn’t attempt to help, sliding his fingers up Jaskier’s shirt to brush across bare skin. “Off,” he grunts. Jaskier abandons his task to do as told, tossing his shirt to the floor with a delicate shiver. Surging up, Geralt claims his lips in a passionate kiss and finishes divesting himself off his armor. He’s pushed back and doesn’t fight it, letting Jaskier have his way as he holds their bodies together. 

“Geralt, fuck.” The bard whines against his lips. He ends the kiss to trail his lips along Jaskier’s jaw and throat, feeling his fluttering pulse. It’s pure instinct that’s taken over at this point and he growls, sinking his teeth in and sucking hard. A sharp cry answers him and Jaskier’s hips stutter violently, knees jerking against his waist. “Ruin me,” he begs weakly. Geralt lets out a hum of acknowledgement and moves his lips, delivering another two bites that have Jaskier keen and writhe down against him. He slips a hand between them and gropes blindly for the bard, smirking as Jaskier snatches his hand and guides it exactly where he needs to be touched. 

He rubs Jaskier’s bulge through his trousers, licking one of the love bites that he’s left as a reminder of who the bard belongs to. Jaskier practically sobs and rocks into his palm, his hips finding their own rhythm as he tries to fuck himself against Geralt’s hand. Before he can slip his hand beneath the fabric, Jaskier jerks upright with bright eyes and two hands planted firmly against his chest. “What?” He asks in disbelief, watching the younger man lick his swollen lips. “Jaskier-“ he all but growls his name and Jaskier’s cock twitches. 

“Oil,” he pants. “Just-just a second.” He’s on his feet before Geralt can stop him and he lifts up on his elbows, tracking Jaskier. He digs haphazardly through the saddle bags, swearing through his teeth until he pulls out a small bottle of what he wants. He rocks on his feet for a moment and abruptly strips down his pants and smallclothes, leaving him naked and breathing hard in front of Geralt. 

“Fuck.” He knows there are other things that he could say, but that seems to sum it up adequately. Jaskier flushes with pleasure and Geralt lets out a rumble of approval. He sits up and strips away the rest of his clothing, trying not to stiffen as Jaskier’s eyes trace him with hunger. He knows he’s covered in scars, Jaskier has bandaged and traced a dozen of them in the bath or after a grueling fight, but this feels different. 

“Finally.” Jaskier’s voice is reverent as he tosses the bottle onto the bed against Geralt’s hip. He uncorks it and slicks his fingers, barely topping it again before Jaskier is on him. His cock is flush against Geralt’s stomach as he writhes in his lap, messily meeting him in the middle for a desperate kiss. He grips the bard by the ass and hauls him closer, devouring his groans as he slips a hand between them. Jaskier’s moan tastes divine and he strokes him root to tip, relishing in the noises he draws from the smaller man. “Geralt,” he pleads breathlessly against his lips. 

“I know.” He murmurs, quickly kissing the corner of his lips and trailing his lips down his throat. Jaskier fucks willingly into his hand, clinging to Geralt’s shoulders and digging his nails in. It’s hard and fast and desperate and Geralt wants to take this slower, he does, but he can’t be bothered at this point. He _needs_ Jaskier and-

“Geralt! Bard!” A sharp knock hits the door and Jaskier jerks in his grasp, paling and going still. Geralt finishes his stroke and Jaskier bites down on his lip, shuddering as he cums and paints the Witcher's chest with his release. 

“Not now,” Geralt snarls at Coën. 

“Lunch time! Vesemir said get your asses down here.” Coën replies cheerfully. Geralt drops his forehead against Jaskier’s shoulder and exhales roughly, gritting his teeth. 

“Give us a moment.” He commands sharply. Coën’s footsteps begin down the stairs and he flops onto his back with a groan, dragging Jaskier with him. “Fuck.”

“Geralt,” he whines before pressing his face against the crook of Geralt’s neck. “I’d rather starve right now-“

“We have to.” He sighs and closes his eyes, dragging his palm heavily up Jaskier’s spine. “If we don’t, Vesemir will drag us down there stark naked. He doesn’t give a shit.”

“But I want you,” Jaskier whines again. Geralt turns and presses a kiss to sweat damp hair, humming his agreement. He holds Jaskier a moment longer before rolling him off onto his back as gently as he can. Releasing a noise of aggravation, he gets to his feet and walks over to the table where there’s a pitcher of water. He grabs a cloth and soaks it, shivering lightly from the cool liquid. It’s easy to clean himself and rinse the cloth before taking it over to Jaskier and repeating the process. “I don’t want to,” he complains loudly. 

“Then stay here and starve.” Geralt murmurs. Startled blue eyes snap open and he smirks, bending and pressing a kiss to his forehead. “We’ll have time later,” he promises. 

“We’d better.” 

Jaskier dresses quickly and Geralt follows in his wake, keeping his gaze averted. He’s achingly hard and furious at the interruption, but he knows they need to be quick. He steals a glance at the bard, lips quirking as he sees Jaskier trying in vain to tug his collar up over the marks on his throat. It doesn’t matter. Geralt can still smell what they’ve been up to and it will only take a glance for the others to catch on. With a quiet sigh, he starts for the door and looks over his shoulder when Jaskier doesn’t immediately follow. His gaze lingers on the lute and he snatches it up without another thought, beaming as he turns to Geralt. 

Every eye turns to them as they enter the dining hall. Geralt doesn’t even flinch, but Jaskier turns bright red and tightens his hold on his lute. “Fucking called it,” Lambert says with unrestrained glee. Eskel slides a coin across the table and Geralt rolls his eyes, dropping into his seat next to Ciri. 

“Thought we were going to have to come and get you.” Vesemir says, lips twitching in a ghost of a smile. 

“You got a lute!” Ciri cries, abandoning her spot beside Geralt to move closer to Jaskier. He shifts over and allows her his seat, smiling fondly as Jaskier nods and offers to let her hold it. “It’s even more beautiful than the last one. Where did you get it?” She asks. Panicked blue eyes shoot to Geralt’s face and he nods slightly, shuffling the plates and cups in front of him so Ciri’s are in front of her again. 

“Geralt gave it to me. A lovely thing, isn’t it?” Jaskier asks, lightly plucking at one of the strings. He immediately frowns and starts to tune it, muttering to himself as he does. 

“And then you jumped his-“ Lambert doesn’t get to finish as Coën’s elbow finds its place against his ribs. Smirking to himself, Geralt lifts his spoon of broth and takes a bite. 

-

Dinner is a quiet affair that night. Geralt is perfectly content with the occasional words with his brethren and Jaskier’s warmth at his side. It isn’t until the dishes have been cleared away that Lambert nods at the lute, tapping his fingers against the table. “Play something for us, Jaskier.” He says. As the first chord is strummed, he pulls a hunk of bread from inside his sleeve and thumps Jaskier smack in the forehead with it. “Not _that_ damned song.”

“Fuck off,” Jaskier laughs and tosses his head back, the column of his throat exposed. Geralt studies the marks that he left there, immensely pleased with his handiwork. 

“Play the one about the woman, Jaskier.” Ciri says, swiveling around to face him. 

“I don’t think that one’s appropriate-"

“Not the fishmonger one,” she says with a shake of her head. Geralt snorts at that and straightens as Jaskier shoots him an anxious look. “The kiss one, please. I haven’t heard it in so long.” Ciri bats her lashes expectantly and Jaskier’s fingers flutter to obey, tuning the instrument once again. 

“Only because it’s you,” he says softly. 

“You don’t have to.” Geralt murmurs. But Jaskier shakes his head and lightly plucks at the strings, stalling a bit longer. 

“Gotta get over it one day,” he says before launching into the song. 

“ _The fairer sex, they often call it…”_

Geralt’s heart hasn’t felt this heavy in weeks. Jaskier’s voice is spilling over with emotion and the syllables break a few times, but that doesn’t stop him. His eyes glisten as he sings, gazing vacantly into the distance. But he doesn’t miss a single note and his voice carries on, raw and stripping him completely bare in front of his captive audience. Geralt hasn’t heard this one before, not since the broken attempt at it in the inn that he’d overheard from the stable. He takes the time to listen to the words, trying to pick them apart and understand what his bard is actually saying. It’s damned harder than he’d like to admit. Jaskier is the poet, not him. 

His voice trails off with the last line and a strange silence settles over the group. He doesn’t need to look to see the other Witcher’s are reaching the same conclusion: the song is about him. His relationship with Yennefer and how insecure Jaskier felt in her presence. He wants nothing more than to take Jaskier in his arms and kiss him, reassuring him that Geralt’s heart belongs to him. But he doesn’t. He can’t seem to remember how to move. 

Ciri breaks the silence by getting up and hugging Jaskier around the shoulders, resting her chin on his head. “It’s lovely, Jas. Have you written anything new?” She asks. 

“Not yet, my dear, but I’ll be working on a few things. I’ve got some ideas written down…” Jaskier smiles softly and lifts one arm to hug her back. “You should go off to bed, shouldn’t you?” 

“Will you tell me a story before I sleep?” She asks. 

“I suppose I can find something to tell you.” He puts a finger to his chin and pretends to think hard. “Oh! Have I told you about Geralt and the werewolf?” He asks. She shakes her head and he gets up, setting his lute down on the table. “Gentlemen, I shall return when my services are no longer needed.” He bows deeply at the waist and grins, looping an arm around Ciri’s shoulders to guide her from the dining hall. 

“I always thought the others were exaggerating.” Lambert hums, tapping an index finger against the table. 

“About what?” Geralt frowns across the table. 

“About his talents. I knew he must be gifted, but his voice is truly pleasant. A master bard indeed.”

“And you bought him that lute,” Coën says. “Geralt, I’ve never seen you so undone for someone.”

“Fuck off,” he snaps. “Every bard needs the tool of his trade.” He glances briefly at the lute and shifts his body toward Eskel and Vesemir, a proper frown forming. “He fell off the balcony?”

“Stones came loose when he leaned on it.” Vesemir confirms quietly. “If he hadn’t been caught in the vines, he’d likely be dead.”

“I dragged him in through Ciri’s window when I caught him.” Eskel answers. “Shook him up pretty good.”

“He begged the gods for his life.”

“And then we told him he was part elf. Sorry about that.” Eskel scratches at the back of his neck. “Thought he was keeping it from you. Had no idea that he was actually clueless.”

“Hm.” Geralt thinks back to when he’d first made the discovery himself. It hadn’t been a week after his encounter with Filavandrel that he’d been hired to slay a pack of ghouls. Jaskier had followed him to the fight and stayed back with Roach at Geralt’s command. A stray ghoul had circled around the back and sunk claws deep into Jaskier’s thigh. The thick scent of copper and fear had burned his nostrils and he’d whirled around, bringing his sword down and slicing clean through the ghoul that the bard had kicked toward him with a cry of pain. It hadn’t been until later by the fire while wrapping Jaskier’s wound that he’d realized his companion wasn’t fully human. He hadn’t brought attention to it because it hadn’t mattered at the time. He’d thought perhaps Jaskier was ashamed of his lineage, but he’d always referred to himself as human and there had never been any evidence to suggest he was lying. He had wholeheartedly believed that and Geralt hadn’t questioned him. 

“You love him.” It’s not a question, but Geralt nods to Vesemir in answer. 

“I shouldn’t.” He admits. Jaskier is his complete opposite and he’s worried about hurting him. One day he’ll push him too hard and Jaskier will walk away like on the mountain. Only next time, fate won’t bring them back together. Of that he feels certain. His chest tightens with the thought and only gentle fingertips on his shoulder break him free again. He looks up into gentle blue eyes and Jaskier wordlessly slides into his lap, curling into his chest and ignoring the snickers coming from the other men. 

“She was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.” He says, dropping his head against Geralt’s shoulder. “And you’re wrong, by the way.”

“About what?”

“Loving me. You really should. I’m the best company you’ve ever had and I certainly have the best singing voice.” Jaskier’s lips curl in a soft smile that Geralt wants to take from his lips. So he does. He presses their foreheads together and Jaskier beams in response, fingers curling into his forearm. He winces slightly a moment later and Geralt immediately takes him by the hand, turning it over with a frown. His fingertips are bright red from where he’d been playing the lute and Jaskier offers a sheepish grin. “Been a while since I played, you know.”

“You’re a menace to yourself.” Geralt huffs and releases his fingers. 

“But I’m _your_ menace.” Jaskier lightly taps him on the nose. Eskel snorts across the table and Lambert breaks into full laughter, holding back a teasing remark as Geralt glowers. Coën saves the day by launching into a story of his travels in the past year and Jaskier settles down properly, excitement lighting his eyes as he asks the occasional question. It’s not too long before he falls asleep, head tucked under Geralt’s chin and body going slack. 

“Go on,” Eskel says with a wave of his hand. Inclining his head, he secures his arms beneath Jaskier’s legs and gets to his feet. It’s a bit harder to grab the lute but he manages, glancing fondly at his sleeping bard. It’s not exactly the evening he’d wanted, but as he eases Jaskier beneath the covers and climbs in behind him, he can’t picture needing anything else. 

-

_Jaskier’s fingers curl around his shoulder and his bard groans, sinking down slowly on his cock. Every inch feels like torture and Geralt growls, nails digging crescent marks into Jaskier’s hips. “Be patient,” his lover huffs as he fully seats himself. He drags his free hand across Geralt’s chest, thumb tweaking idly at one of his nipples._

_“Fuck,” Geralt says. “You look…” the words stick in his throat for a moment._

_“Handsome? Stunning? Like your dreams come true?” He asks. Geralt hums in agreement to all of the above and slides a hand up Jaskier’s chest, curling his fingers in the thick blanket of hair coating him. He tugs and Jaskier bends willingly, their mouths meeting in a clash of tongues and choked moans. His breath catches as Jaskier lifts himself up and rocks back down, slowly finding a rhythm that takes his breath away._

_“I like you like this,” Geralt growls against his lips. Jaskier tips back his head to laugh and he latches onto the pale skin of his throat, sinking his teeth in to draw a pleasurable gasp._

_“Like what?” Jaskier asks breathlessly, groaning as Geralt thrusts to meet the roll of his hips._

_“Mine,” he replies._

_“Geralt, dear heart,” he croons softly, “I’ve never belonged to anyone else.” They meet for another heated kiss and Jaskier breaks it, Geralt’s name falling like a plea from his lips, weaving itself into a song that’s accompanied by their skin slapping together and other sinful noises._ “Fuck, Geralt.”

His eyes snap open as someone groans his name and his hips shift forward, grinding against the body writhing back against him. “Geralt,” Jaskier murmurs. His nose twitches from the scent of arousal rolling off the bard in waves. It takes a moment to orient himself and he blinks slowly, realizing his arms are snared around the other’s waist and pinning him to Geralt’s chest. “You absolute tease,” he whispers sleepily. 

“Fuck,” he rasps. “Jaskier-“

“Sh, I don’t mind.” His head turns and a soft kiss is clumsily pressed against the corner of his lips. Jaskier wriggles in his hold until they’re chest to chest and lightly rubs their noses together. “Good dream?” He asks, a wicked glint in his eyes. Rolling his eyes, Geralt silences him with a lazy kiss. Jaskier’s fingers brush against his clothed cock and he nods, a low groan spilling out as Jaskier takes him in hand. He pumps slowly and Geralt hums against his mouth, sliding a hand down to return the favor. They stay like that, trading kisses and lazy touches until they’re cumming in unison and panting into each other’s mouths. 

“I think I quite like waking up this way,” Jaskier whispers with an impish grin. Snorting, Geralt wipes his hand clean on Jaskier’s shirt and smirks at his protest and whining. “Bastard.” The word has no teeth to it and Jaskier rolls away, stripping his shirt and cleaning himself before tossing it to the floor. Geralt gathers him in his arms again and Jaskier slips his head beneath his chin, sighing in contentment. “Better,” he whispers as he tangles their legs together. “Not as good as sex, but it’ll do for now.”

“Hm.” Geralt agrees with a slight smile, pressing a kiss to the top of Jaskier’s head. It’s easy to fall back asleep holding his bard. 

-

“Jas, look at what I can do!” Ciri exclaims, waving her practice sword through the air. He lifts his gaze and squints across the courtyard, watching her spin on her heel and strike the practice dummy square in the chest. “Eskel taught me to do it! He says I’m quick on my feet.” She puffs out her chest and he chuckles weakly, nodding as he presses the heel of his palm against his forehead. 

“Good job, little lioness!” He praises. The sound of his own voice is too loud and he grits his teeth, baring them in a grimace. 

“All right there, bardling?” Lambert startles him from behind and he snaps his head around, eyes wide as he nods. 

“O-of course.” The Witcher rewards him with an unimpressed look and he sighs, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Just an ache, nothing worse.” A drink of water and an hour of sleep will fix him right up. He doesn’t expect the other man to step forward, fingers lightly pressing against his temple and then the base of his neck. He lets out an involuntary groan and leans into the cool touch, biting the inside of his cheek as Lambert huffs a laugh. 

“Let’s see if we can fix that.” He says gently before digging his fingers in. The pain flares briefly and Jaskier releases a pitiful whine, torn between shying back from the touch and yielding into it. But Lambert’s fingers are magic and begin to push some of the tension away, leaving him with temporary relief. 

“Oh, fuck.” He breathes out. His head shifts forward until he’s pressing into Lambert’s stomach, hiding himself from the light of day. The dark helps immediately and Jaskier knows at once that this is the type of headache that’s going to leave him ruined and weak as a newborn kitten for a couple of days. Lambert continues to rub the tension away and he exhales roughly, worrying his lip between his teeth. Nails scratch along the base of his scalp and he helplessly shivers, another small whimper escaping. The sensation is borderline too much but he doesn’t ask the man to stop. 

He doesn’t have to. 

“Lambert.” His name is a tense growl and the gentle touch slowly comes to a halt. Jaskier shifts slightly so he can peek with the corner of his eye and finds Geralt approaching, a less than pleased look on his face. On anyone else, Jaskier would say it was a look of jealousy. 

“Relax, Geralt. I haven’t taken your little lark to bed.” Lambert says, fingers resuming stroking the base of his neck. “Headache, I think. I was just trying to help.”

“Let me see him.” With a sigh, Lambert steps back and Jaskier whines from the loss. He screws his eyes shut against the sunlight and a shadow falls over him. A familiar calloused hand cups his cheek and he leans into it, forcing his eyes open to see Geralt’s concerned face. “What’s wrong?” He murmurs. 

“Headache. I’ll be fine-“ he starts. A withering look has him reconsidering his answer. “I’ll be fine _after_ the pain gets bad enough that I vomit. Then the pressure goes away. Haven’t had one this bad in months.” Rarely had he ever faced one while traveling with Geralt. When he had, he’d always made the excuse of staying in town an extra day or two under the premise of earning coins and joining Geralt later on the road. They’d split up often enough that he’d never been questioned. 

“What can I do?” Geralt asks. 

“I think I just want to go back to bed for a while. Light and noise make it worse. I just need to make it through the worst of it.” He says honestly. 

“Did Lambert’s touch help?” 

“A bit. But it was also too much. I’m sensitive to a lot of things right now.” Jaskier doesn’t bother trying to properly explain that, closing his eyes and leaning forward until his forehead touches Geralt’s chin. “Bed?” He asks hopefully. 

“Come on.” Geralt shifts and loops an arm around his waist, helping him to his feet. He doesn’t even try to properly take his weight, leaning solidly on the Witcher. 

“Thanks for the help, Lambert.” He says over his shoulder. 

“Feel better, little lark!” Geralt huffs quietly at that and Jaskier grins. 

“Don’t be jealous. I much prefer you calling me an insufferable nuisance.” He teases. 

“I haven’t said that.” Geralt protests as they walk. 

“Not recently, no.” Jaskier admits with a slight smile. Their dynamic has certainly shifted over the past few weeks. He knows that it’s wishful thinking to believe that things will always be this good. As long as Geralt doesn’t send him away again, he doesn’t mind the storms to come. “Tell Eskel and Vesemir I’ll have to learn potions another day,” he says as they start up the staircase. 

“What are you learning those for?” Geralt’s brows furrow and he quietly laughs, reaching up to smooth the lines of the Witcher’s face. 

“For you, of course. Even if I can’t fight as well as you, I can help in other ways.” He says. “Nothing too complicated, but the basics are going to be quite useful.” He says. Geralt doesn’t answer as he pushes the door open. Jaskier is led to the bed and promptly hides his face against a pillow, groaning. Geralt’s footsteps retreat and he listens for him on the stairwell, but the Witcher doesn’t leave. Curiosity wins over the throbbing in his skull and he turns his head, watching as Geralt goes and blows out the candles and draws the curtains shut. There’s still some muted light, but it already feels easier to breathe and he burrows down against the mattress. “Thank you, my darling Witcher.”

“What else can I do?” Geralt returns to his side and sits, lightly touching the back of his neck. 

“Food would be nice. Something soft. And water.”

“But you said you’d be sick.”

“I’d rather have something in my stomach than nothing. Trust me, it will be far less painful.” Jaskier reaches out and lightly grasps Geralt by the forearm, holding him there. “Don’t fret, this will pass. Ciri’s seen it before.” 

“How often are you sick like this?”

“A few times a year. I made sure you left me in a town when it got like this. Didn’t want to slow you down.” Jaskier says. He’s surprised to find Geralt’s wounded expression aimed at him and it tugs at his heart. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. It took nearly a decade before you comfortably called me your friend.” He reminds. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to slow you down and have you worrying about me on the road. You had lives to save, dear heart.” Something unreadable passes in Geralt’s eyes and normally, Jaskier would let it slide. He’s tired and it’s the perfect excuse to pretend he missed it, but he can’t. “What?”

“In my dreams, you call me dear heart.” Geralt lightly strokes his hair back from his forehead. 

“From one of my ballads.” Jaskier says, answering the unasked question. He clears his throat and leans into the cool touch, sighing. 

_“Dear heart, it’s me that’s come knocking_

_Twisting your arm til you hear me talking_

_You can’t silence the words of this song_

_No more than I can stop following you along…”_

“Not one of your most popular ones,” Geralt says. 

“No, just one of many love songs penned in your name. Now, darling, could you please get me something to eat? I’m afraid it’s starting to get worse and this next hour will be hard.” Jaskier can already taste the bile trying to crawl up his throat. He wants to heave desperately, but he can hold it back until there’s something stronger in his stomach. 

“I’ll be back.” Geralt promises. He moves a bucket to the side of the bed and casts one final worried look at Jaskier before quickly departing. With a groan, he turns and buries his face back between the pillows. It’s hours later before the worst of it passes. He gags down the food Geralt brings him and heaves it up within minutes, sweat breaking across his brow. The Witcher says nothing, rubbing his back in soothing circles and holding him when he’s done emptying his stomach. He takes small sips of the water that’s pressed to his lips and dozes in and out until it’s time for dinner. 

“You should stay and rest.” Geralt says as he sits up. “Vesemir will understand. I can bring you a plate-“

“Fresh air might do me some good.” Jaskier answers. “I, um, need your help walking.” He feels the heat rise to his cheeks, but Geralt doesn’t say anything. He simply offers his arm and takes most of Jaskier’s weight as they make their way down to the dining hall. There is idle conversation happening, but it comes to a grinding halt as they enter the room. “Cat got your tongues?” Jaskier asks as Geralt leads him to the table to sit. 

“Are you feeling better?” Ciri asks, pressing into his side and resting her hand lightly on his arm. “Geralt said it was a headache. One of your bad ones?”

“It’s gone now.” Jaskier assures, dropping a kiss on top of her head. “My sweet, thank you for being concerned for me. How was your training today?”

“Boring.” She wrinkles her nose. “Master Vesemir has me reading these dull books about the differences between monsters. They’re all the same in the end.”

“Believe me, they aren’t.” Jaskier’s lips twitch into a faint smile. “A noonwraith and a nightwraith are not one and the same. Knowing the oil that you just coat your blade in helps ensure victory against them as well.”

“And what oil is that?” Vesemir asks. 

“Specter oil. Made from..bear fat and arenaria, isn’t it?” He glances at Geralt to find a pleased smile on the Witcher’s face and his cheeks heat in response. “What?”

“Do you know how to enhance it?” Vesemir presses.

“Um...wolf’s liver and mistletoe. Essence of wraith and…” He scrunches his face in concentration. “That’s it, isn’t it? Why are you all looking at me like that?”

“Seems you taught him well, Geralt.” Vesemir’s lips quirk and he nods. 

“He has a good memory.” Geralt praises. The words stir something hot in Jaskier’s gut and he bites down on his lip. “He’ll do well learning potions with you.”

“I have no doubt about it.” Vesemir agrees.

“All right, you’ve made your points.” Ciri huffs slightly and Jaskier’s grin widens. He hugs her close and presses another kiss to the crown of her head. “But reading books is so boring. I want to fight.”

“And you will, scamp.” Geralt tells her with a chuckle. “You have to learn the basics. No one’s throwing you to the wolves just yet. You have to learn what you can before proper fighting can be taught.”

“But you taught me in the woods on the road without asking me to read.” Ciri argues.

“Because out of us, Geralt is the worst teacher. Always has been.” Lambert chuckles and flashes a wide grin.

“Can’t be that bad if I taught the bard a thing or two.” Geralt retorts just as quick. 

“I think that says I actually pay attention, not that you’re a good teacher.” Jaskier teases with a cheeky smile. Geralt arcs a brow at him and Ciri giggles, stifling the noise quickly when Geralt turns the look on her instead. 

“Damn. And here I didn’t think that the bard had balls.” Eskel chuckles quietly. Jaskier laughs, loud and bright, and leans over until his head touches Geralt’s shoulder. He tilts his head up and brushes a kiss against his jaw, heart fluttering with love as his Witcher smiles fondly down at him. There aren’t many perfect moments in life, but this feels like one of them. 

-

“I want to race you!” Ciri declares, bouncing on the bed and startling Jaskier from polishing his lute. He carefully sets his instrument to the side and turns his full attention to her, brows pulling together. 

“You’re already faster than me, darling. Why do you want to punish and make a fool out of me?” He asks. 

“Lambert says that the obstacle course is one of the best ways to train. He also thinks you can’t beat me. Geralt said he was wrong.” Jaskier knows what she’s doing. She’s trying to goad him into it and he should know better than to play right into her hands. “I can always tell them that you turned me down. We both know I’ll win anyways.” Fuck. 

“We’ll see about that, little lioness.” Jaskier grins and launches toward her, pinning her down against the bed. She shrieks with laughter as his fingers fly up and down her sides, identifying the most sensitive spaces that leave her gasping and pleading breathlessly for him to stop. “Aha!” He declares triumphantly, pulling back to see Ciri’s flushed cheeks and eyes dancing with mirth. Before he can say anything, she rolls away and leaps to her feet. 

“You’ll never win!” She cries, darting nimbly across the room. 

“Get back here!” Laughing, Jaskier surges to his feet and chases after her. She’s fast, he’ll give her that, but his legs are longer and carry him further. He reaches her right at the stairs and she bounds down them two at a time, nearly stumbling in her haste. As they reach the bottom, she scurries toward the beginning of the course where the other Witchers are gathered. 

“Lambert, help!” She flings herself at the man and climbs up his back, locking her legs around his waist and tugging him around to face Jaskier. 

“Cheater!” Jaskier flings a hand against his chest and pouts. 

“What are you two doing?” Eskel cocks an eyebrow at them and Lambert shrugs, turning his head to look at Ciri. 

“Did you start a fight that you couldn’t finish?” He asks. 

“Not at all!” She thrusts her chin up and Geralt snorts, folding his arms across his chest. 

“Children, behave.” He says, lips quirking in amusement. 

“I am _not_ a child!” Jaskier cries, smacking his upper arm. “This is your fault, I’ll have you know.”

“You don’t need me to get into trouble.” Geralt lifts his gaze pointedly to his balcony and Jaskier hits him again. 

“That was not my fault!”

“Sure it wasn’t.” Geralt smirks and flicks his gaze back to Ciri. “Get down from Lambert. He’s not a tree.”

“I don’t mind it.” Lambert murmurs, sending a crooked smile to Ciri. She huffs and lets go, dropping down and jutting her chin up to Geralt. 

“I told Jaskier the truth. I can beat him in this race.”

“Then I tickled her and she ran away.” Jaskier says, immensely pleased with himself. 

“We’ll see about that. Vesemir is down at the end with Coën. First one to make it to him wins the race. No shoving and no tripping one another. Last thing we need is one of you breaking a limb.” Geralt murmurs. 

“I’ll see you at the finish line, dear heart. Not a scratch on me.” Jaskier promises. He leans in and pecks him on the cheek, grinning as Geralt’s cheeks warm. To their credit, the other Witchers don’t react beyond a soft snort and Lambert’s dramatic eye roll. 

“Line up then.” Eskel says, waving them forward. Jaskier steps up beside Ciri, grinning over at her. It doesn’t matter that she’s likely going to kick his ass and he’ll be ridiculed for being beaten by a child. Her eyes are bright with excitement and he can’t bear the thought of taking that away from her. If he has to suffer a loss to see her be happy, then so be it. 

“Ready...and...go!” Lambert declares. Jaskier pushes off instantly, but Ciri is quick on her feet. She scrambles past and leaps up the rungs of the first ladder, climbing halfway before Jaskier gets his foot on the first rung. He laughs and gives chase, hurrying to catch up. She’s struggling at the wall and he meets her there, climbing it with ease thanks to his height advantage. He clears the second just as quickly and slides down the next ladder, quickly looking for the next step on the path. Ciri beats him to it, slipping around him with ease and beginning a hasty descent down a ladder. He climbs halfway and jumps over her, the impact jarring him as his feet meet the ground. 

“You’ll never win!” She laughs, already moving to the next wall and beginning her scramble over it. 

“Just you wait!” With a burst of speed, he clears the wall and beats her to the next ladder. He can see the next few platforms and the courtyard not further beyond them and grins. He has a real chance of winning if he remembers the next few steps of the path and uses his longer strides to his advantage. The next two ladders put him further ahead than he expects and he dashes down the final rampart, pushing himself to the end. “That’s not fair!” He hears Ciri yell. Glancing back, he finds her at the top of the final ladder scrambling to get down. Adrenaline floods his veins and he pushes himself to be faster, flicking his gaze to the courtyard below. Geralt and the others have made their way around and they’re standing with Vesemir. 

He swings himself over a low fence and hurries through the courtyard, barreling into Geralt with a breathless laugh. The Witcher stumbles slightly and snares his arms around his waist, hugging him tight. “I did it.” He whispers, cheeks flushed as he looks up at the older man. His heart is racing in his chest and he leans up, brushing their lips together. Fire ignites under his skin and he grips Geralt by the forearms, breathing hard as he rests their foreheads together. 

“I can’t believe you beat me!” Ciri’s pout can be heard and Jaskier turns his head, smiling softly. 

“You were very close, little lioness. Keep practicing and you’ll be winning before you know it.” He says. Geralt’s fingers press urgently against his hips and a shiver runs down his spine. “Yeah?” He murmurs, licking his lips as he meets warm amber eyes. 

“Now.” Geralt practically growls the word and electricity sparks through him. It’s easy to slip past the other Witcher’s who are giving Ciri suggestions for the future. Jaskier’s hand falls into Geralt’s and he’s surprised when the other man links their fingers, squeezing their palms together. Heat pulses through him at the touch and he quickens his pace, eager to reach their room at the top of the tower. Geralt quietly chuckles, but he knows that his Witcher is feeling the same way. Jaskier needs to lose his clothing as quickly as possible. 

The door clicks shut and Jaskier finds his back against the wall, warm lips pressed against his throat. He yanks at the hem of Geralt’s shirt and forces it up, exhaling shakily as Geralt bites down against his fluttering pulse. “Fuck,” he croaks as hips roll urgently against his own. “Geralt. Geralt-“ he hisses as another bite is delivered to his throat and keens, knees trembling. 

“Jaskier.” A talented mouth maps his name across his neck and he slides his hands across Geralt’s abs, digging in his fingers with a muttered curse. “Clothes off,” Geralt growls. He sucks on Jaskier’s earlobe and he shakily pushes against the Witcher’s chest for the space to do as told. 

“Same with you, hurry it up.” He demands. His shirt gets stuck halfway over his head and Geralt takes hold, ripping it free of his arms. Jaskier briefly laments the shirt as the tattered fabric hits the floor, but Geralt’s covering him again before he can dwell on it. He works his tongue past Jaskier’s lips, one hand heavy on his hip and another tangled in the nest of hair on his chest. His hands flutter uselessly around Geralt’s shoulders and he whimpers as the other man’s erection presses into his own. “Geralt,” he pleads against his lips. 

“Fuck. I know.” He presses another heated kiss to Jaskier’s lips and pulls back to remove his shirt. Jaskier takes advantage and slips under his arm, scrambling back a few steps to try and get his pants off. They’re halfway down his thighs when Geralt grabs him again, cupping his face and angling it up while teeth nip at his delicate jaw. 

“I’ll never get naked at this rate!” Jaskier fumbles for Geralt’s belt and manages to get it undone. “Fuck, do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this?” He pants. Geralt roughly rubs his thumb across his nipple, drawing a ragged moan from him. 

“Too long.” Grunting, Geralt delivers another kiss to him before he forces himself to take a step back. They’re quick to lose their pants and smallclothes and _fuck_. Jaskier swears that seeing Geralt naked will never grow old. He’s hard lines and battle scars, but Jaskier has never wanted anything else. He meets Geralt for another kiss, letting the Witcher guide him across the room. The backs of his knees touch the mattress and he startles, gripping at Geralt’s shoulders and turning to look over his own. He’s got supplies scattered across the bed for cleaning his lute, the only safe space where Ciri had been earlier. 

“Fucking-“ Growling through his teeth, Jaskier leans over and snatches a bottle of oil from the middle of it all. “Table. Now.” Without warning, he jumps up and latches his legs around Geralt’s waist. Strong arms come up to support him and they engage in a messy kiss, all teeth and tongues that sends fire flooding through his body. He barely notices the clatter of objects hitting the floor before his back is pressed into the cool wood. “Geralt-“

“Give it to me.” The words are an inhuman growl against his lips. He hands over the bottle without a word and the top is torn off, oil spilling across Geralt’s fingers. Spreading his legs wide, Jaskier lifts them up and hooks his ankles around the Witcher’s neck. “Didn’t know you were so flexible.” Geralt smirks, one finger brushing against his rim. 

“One of many reasons I’m the best lover in all the land. Just you wait, dear heart.” Returning the smirk, Jaskier rolls his hips forward with an impatient groan. “I’m not a doll, I can take more than that.” 

“You ever stop talking?” Chuckling, Geralt slides in a second finger and begins to stretch him. His fingers brush just shy of where Jaskier needs them and he clenches around them, swearing. 

“You love the sound of my voice. Now be a good Witcher and fuck me like you mean it.” He snarks back. Geralt grants the third finger only a moment later and the breath is punched from his lungs. Moaning shamelessly, Jaskier shifts back against them until they brush just where he wants them. Electricity crackles through his body and he cries out, clenching hard around Geralt’s fingers. 

“As you wish.” Geralt chuckles again and leans down, pressing their lips together. Jaskier can’t focus enough to return it properly, but he feels Geralt’s fingers disappear and something thicker nudge against his rim. 

“Oh, fuck. Geralt, please-“ The word is barely out of his mouth before the Witcher pushes into him, stealing the words right off his tongue. A needy groan escapes and he arches up, panting against the other’s lips. 

“Tell me when you’re ready.” Geralt draws Jaskier’s lower lip between his teeth and sucks hard. He gives himself a moment to adjust. He can’t remember the last time he was fucked like this or the last time that he’d tried to stretch himself. Having a partner was where all of the fun was at. He’s imagined this a thousand times over, yet none of those fantasies hold a handle to the real thing. Geralt is drawing him close, their lips pressed together, and something unfurls in his chest. 

“Move. Please, gods, get on with it.” He begs. Geralt hums against his lips and sets a brutal pace, fucking him hard and fast. He plants his arms on either side of Jaskier and he reaches up, grasping at his forearms to have something to hold onto. Geralt’s name falls like a prayer from his lips, desperate and broken and somehow perfect. He throws his head back and closes his eyes, moaning and cursing as Geralt fucks him senseless. Teeth drag across his throat again and he bares it without thought, giving himself completely to the other man. 

“Jaskier.” His name is a husky whisper against the shell of his ear a moment later and his eyes snap open. Geralt smirks down at him and one hand moves, gripping at his cock. “Let go.” He murmurs, stroking in time with each thrust. It isn’t long before Jaskier arches, painting Geralt’s chest and his own in white. Folding down over him, Geralt shudders as his release takes him as well. Jaskier lifts his other hand and pats weakly at Geralt’s hair, a hoarse noise leaving him. 

“Why did we wait so long to do that?” He asks, offering a crooked grin as Geralt lifts his head. The Witcher smiles and presses a kiss to his wrist, unable to provide an answer. “Fuck.”

“I thought your vocabulary was more advanced. If this was all it took to make you speechless, I should have done this long ago.”

“Bastard.” Jaskier swats weakly at his chest. “You love me and my talking and all other nonsense.”

“You’re right.” Something softens in Geralt’s gaze and he kisses Jaskier’s forehead. “I do love your talking and all other nonsense. But mostly, I am in love with you.” The words take Jaskier’s breath. He’s danced around the emotion for the last couple of weeks, not wanting to push Geralt or make him uncomfortable. But this…

“I was supposed to say it first. I’m the poet,” he reminds. Rolling his eyes, Geralt silences his pout with a gentle kiss. He can’t bring himself to complain, letting his eyes slip shut. Geralt eases out of him and he whines with the loss, frown deepening as the Witcher steps away from him. “No, no. You’re not allowed to just fuck me and leave. I demand cuddles and body warmth.”

“Give me a moment, you daft man.” 

“Love them and then insult them. No wonder I’m the only one who loves you. You’re quite rude.” Jaskier says, not bothering to open his eyes. He can distantly hear the tub being filled with water and suppresses a smile. “Are you going to bathe me?” He asks. 

“You’re filthy. Need a bath before I can let you into bed.”

“Well, at least now I know that you _do_ know a thing or two about taking care of a lover after orgasmic pleasure.”

“Shut up.” The words are spoken so fondly that Jaskier can’t help but laugh. He cracks his eyes open and watches Geralt kneel beside the tub, casting Igni on top of the water and heating it. 

“I wish I could do that.” He murmurs. 

“Come here.” 

“No. You’re supposed to carry me. I won’t have it any other way.” Jaskier declares. He’s pretty sure that he’s not going to be able to walk properly for the next day or two. “Gods, why did I let you fuck me on the table?”

“Because your lute got in the way.”

“Cockblocked by my own true love. What a song that will make.” He chuckles and lifts up on his elbows, surprised to find Geralt walking toward him. Wordlessly, he’s lifted into strong arms and carried across the room. Geralt lowers him into the steaming water and he sighs in blissful contentment. 

“Wash yourself. I’m going to clear the bed off.” A bar of soap is pressed into his hands and he lazily drags it across his stomach, nodding. He doesn’t bother watching Geralt clean the bed, trusting that he’ll take care of the lute and other supplies. He cleans himself slowly, careful not to do too much to offend his sensitive body. He rinses off and gets unsteadily to his feet, gripping the edge of the tub and stepping over the rim. A soft towel is draped over his shoulders and he beams up at Geralt, offering the soap bar. 

“Are you going to be joining me in bed?” He asks.

“You asked me to.” Geralt reminds, a slight frown appearing. “Unless you’ve changed your mind.”

“Never for the rest of my life, darling.” With a wink, Jaskier rubs himself dry and gingerly makes his way to the bed. He flops face first into the mattress, groaning as he drags himself closer to a pillow. “I’m going to be feeling this in the morning.” He complains. The bed dips beside him and calloused hands stroke over his back, applying pressure gradually. 

“Will this help?” Geralt murmurs, digging his thumbs into Jaskier’s lower back. 

“Gods, don’t stop now. You’re magic.” Jaskier can feel himself practically melting into the bed. “Seriously. Why did we wait so long for that?”

“Because life continued to present us with the unexpected.” Geralt goes quiet for a moment. He digs in his fingers a little harder and Jaskier’s muscles tense, a groan escaping. “How long did you want that?” He asks softly. 

“The sex or you?”

“...both.”

“Well, I told you about the djinn and realizing I wanted you. I’d say the sex...I dunno. A longer time? To be honest, I found you attractive and alluring from the moment I saw you in Posada.” Jaskier smiles slightly. “And then you punched me in the stomach and I thought I’d hate you. But I followed you anyways. And then the elves and hearing how passionately you spoke...I suppose I wanted to jump your bones then and there.”

“...the banquet in Cintra.” Geralt mutters. “That’s when…” He struggles to find his words and Jaskier waits, knowing they’ll come when he’s ready. “You were in your element. You were thrilled to be performing. I knew then that I wanted you. Scared the hell out of me.” Lips press against the spot between his shoulder blades. “I didn’t want to lose you.”

“Is that why you started to grow distant with me?” 

“One of them. On the mountain, I started to understand that I couldn’t escape destiny and that...fuck. It scared me. Then I lost Yennefer and you were there and I wanted you gone. It was easier to make you leave than ask you to face destiny with me.”

“Told you I was the smart one.” Jaskier shifts onto his side. Reaching up, he cups Geralt’s cheek and tenderly sweeps a thumb across his face. “I forgave you for that day. Before the lute and before you rescued me from the soldiers. I made my peace with your decision. Tried to, at least.”

“I searched for you after it happened. To make amends but…”

“I was afraid of facing you. Afraid that I’d cry and beg you to take me back on the road and I knew I deserved an apology. I left a lot of false trails and spread rumors about where I was headed to stop you from finding me. Then I went to Cintra because I didn’t think you’d ever come looking there.” Jaskier admits. “I love you, you absolute madman. Don’t doubt that.”

“I won’t.” Geralt turns his head, lightly kissing his fingertips. “I just wanted you to understand. You deserve the truth.”

“And you should forgive yourself. Come here.” Rolling onto his back fully, Jaskier opens his arms. Geralt sinks down into his chest warily and Jaskier hugs him tight, nuzzling against the top of his head. “I love you, Geralt of Rivia. Your scars and your pain and your smiles and everything in between. I promise that I’ll love you for as long as you’ll let me and even longer.”

“And I you.” Geralt murmurs, squeezing him around the waist. 

“Quite right, too. The mighty warrior falls in love with the humble, yet devilishly handsome bard. I think that would make a wonderful ballad. What do you say?”

“If you write songs about what we do in bed, I am taking the lute back.”

“Geralt! You wouldn’t dare!”

“Try me.”

-

Geralt drags his fingers slowly across Jaskier’s side, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. His lover didn’t stir, content to sleep the day way draped across Geralt’s torso. If they had still been walking the Path, it would have annoyed the Witcher to no end to get such a late start to the day. But today he doesn’t mind. They had nowhere to be and he’d let Jaskier sleep as long as he wanted. 

It gives him time to properly examine his lover in the light of day. The sheets were tangled around their waists, leaving his upper back exposed to the soft light that filtered through the curtains. He traced his fingers along the pale lines of past scars that adorned Jaskier’s back and a quiet sigh escaped his lips. He knows most of them by heart now and there were a couple he had sewn up himself after a particularly grisly fight with a monster. Despite it all, Jaskier had never once complained that he’d developed his own scars while traveling with the Witcher. ‘They’re not scars, they’re just battle cries,’ the bard had once told him with a cheeky grin. 

He brushes his thumb across a particularly long line that cuts across Jaskier’s shoulder blade and he’s taken back to the camp where he’d first been reunited with the man. 

_Geralt’s nostrils flare as he approaches the camp. The stench of alcohol, piss, and sweat agitate his heightened senses as he makes his way through the bushes in near silence. He can hear the soldiers joking amongst each other and discussing their future plans. None of that matters to him. As he crouches behind a tree, he strains his senses toward the rest of the camp. Jaskier was most likely being held in one of the tents. If he knew which one, he could start there-_

_“May I help you?” The voice is weak and barely above a whisper, but Geralt would know it from anywhere. His heart clenches. A soldier snaps a response and Geralt can hear the pained gasp leave Jaskier as he’s kicked. The hair on the back of his neck stands up, teeth bared in an ugly snarl, and he carefully draws one of his swords._

_“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Jaskier says as he shakes whatever chains bind him, “but there’s not enough give here-“ Jaskier lets out a sharp gasp for breath and the scent of copper taunts the air. Geralt listens as he’s unchained, staggered footsteps leading him toward one of the tents. He still wasn’t sure which one held Jaskier now, but it mattered little. He’d be able to track him with ease. The faster he took care of the soldiers, the quicker he could bring Jaskier’s pain to an end. He had no idea how long he’d been prisoner, but he suspected it had been since the moment that Cintra fell. The thought made his chest clench again, this time with anger. If these bastards thought they could use Jaskier to get the edge over Geralt, they had another thing coming._

_Sneaking around the edge of the camp, he lunged for the archer standing guard and brought him down with a swift twist of his neck. The bushes rustled around him, but he didn’t care. With his ranged target out of the way, he could more easily hold off the others. He stepped into the light of the fire and drove his sword through the nearest soldier, dropping him before the next one noticed. From the tent, he can hear Jaskier in pain once more and he sees red. He impales his next victim, dragging his blade up and cleaving the man in half. “Monster!” Another soldier shouts. It doesn’t matter. He hacks his way through his enemies without thought, watching each body fall. He doesn’t stop until the camp is silent, save the ragged breaths escaping a battered bard._

_He kicks over a few of the corpses to make sure they’re dead and crosses to the tent where his former traveling companion is being held. He opens the flap, grimacing as Jaskier’s pain and fear spike and flood his nostrils. The bard’s heart is racing as he speaks, “If you’ve returned to torment me more, the answer is the same. Geralt will not be coming for me because he hates me. My voice to him is a filling-less pie and he said it himself last time he saw me, he wants me gone. Killing me would be a blessing for him, I’m quite sure.”_

_Jaskier is an absolute idiot if he believes any of that to be true. But as his voice grows weaker with each word, Geralt knows that it’s his fault. If it hadn’t taken a decade for Jaskier to be called a friend, then perhaps he would understand his worth to the Witcher. He doesn’t like this being his fault. He’s never been one for words and apologies, that’s all Jaskier. Gritting his teeth, he steps further into the tent._

_“Are you finished yet?” He gripes, closing the distance and setting a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. He’s rewarded with an agonized gasp and he rips his hand back, dropping it to his side. Jaskier whimpers and Geralt can smell the salt from his tears. Furrowing his brows, he reaches for the rope binding the bard’s wrists and unfastens the crude knot. As soon as they’re free, Jaskier pulls them in front of him and Geralt steps around the chair to see how bad his injuries are. There’s a trail of blood falling from his lips and there are bruises adorning his face and what Geralt can see of his arms. If these are just surface injuries, he can’t imagine what’s hiding beneath his clothes._

_“What are you doing here?” The question jars him from his examination. He can’t help but raise a brow. Isn’t it obvious? Has Jaskier been struck in the head too many times? He wants to tell him it’s a rescue mission and call him an idiot, but there’s something in the way Jaskier’s expression falls that makes him hold his tongue._

_“Can you walk?” They can discuss Jaskier’s head trauma later. Geralt knows that all of the guards are dead, but that doesn’t mean they’re safe. Any traveler could stumble across this massacre. He needs to put as much distance as he can between this campsite and the pair of them, even if he has to carry Jaskier himself._

_“Of course I can,” Jaskier huffs weakly. Geralt watches him rise on unsteady feet, one ankle poorly holding his weight. When Geralt reaches for him, he turns away and limps toward his lute. His first attempt to grab it makes the strings come to life and Geralt winces from the harsh tune. Muttering to himself, Jaskier grabs for it a second time and nearly falls through the tent. Grabbing at the back of his shirt, Geralt guides him in the proper direction and out of the tent. The bard stops immediately, breath coming in shallow pants as he takes in the carnage in front of him. Geralt curses his weak stomach and grips Jaskier by his uninjured shoulder, turning him carefully away from it all._

_“Geralt, what do you think…”_

“...thinking too loud again, dear heart.” Soft lips press against his fingertips and Geralt comes back to the present, finding Jaskier watching him with a fond smile. “Where did you go, love?”

“Nowhere important.” Gathering Jaskier in his arms, he leans down to press their lips chastely together. The bard cups his cheek and pulls back, brows furrowed as he looks at Geralt. 

“Everything is important when it comes to you. Is something wrong?”

“I’m just remembering.” Geralt says, knowing it’s useless to lie. Jaskier has a habit of seeing right through him. 

“Geralt…”

“I’m remembering when I found you.” He admits, grateful that Jaskier allows him the opportunity to gather his thoughts. “You were surprised that I came for you.”

“Not to be rude, but the last time I had seen you we weren’t exactly on the best of terms.” An index finger lightly pokes his chest. Where there once might have been malice and hurt, now there’s simply acceptance. It’s as freeing as it is damning. 

“I never wanted you to feel that way. I didn’t realize the gravity of what I’d said for a while.”

“That’s because in this affair, I’m the brains and you’re the brawn.” Laughing quietly, Jaskier kisses the tip of his nose and smiles affectionately. “But I happen to be the most patient man on the Continent and-“

“You’re the furthest thing from it,” he interjects. Cornflower blue eyes sharpen at the edges and there’s a stern poke jabbed into his side. 

“I’m patient when it comes to loving you, aren’t I?”

“...” Geralt doesn’t have an answer for that. This man has followed him chasing unspeakable horrors and never asked for anything more than companionship. He’s never had a friend outside of the Witcher’s that he grew up with, but this feels like what it must be like. Jaskier is more than a friend, they both know it, but Geralt is taking this one step at a time. Thankfully, his bard seems to understand and doesn’t press for more. Geralt trusts him with his whole heart and that’s terrifying. The only person he’s trusted until now has been Vesemir. Everyone else was kept at arm’s length to be protected from being an associate of a monster. Jaskier has always carried the role with pride and never backed down from a challenge. 

“If you don’t keep paying attention to me, I’m going to wither away into nothing.” Snorting, Geralt rolls his eyes and glances at Jaskier. He drags a hand down his spine and settles it on his waist, holding his gaze. 

“I love you.” There’s so much more that he wants to say, but the look in Jaskier’s eyes tells him that it’s enough. Leaning down, he presses their lips together and allows himself to close his eyes. His fingers dig into his bard’s hip and Jaskier whimpers, lips parting against his own. The blanket shifts around them and he lays back, guiding Jaskier on top of him. A knee wedges between his thighs and Jaskier’s thickening cock rubs against him, a gasp spilling into his mouth. Stroking his tongue along the other’s, he shifts his hand lower and grips one cheek of Jaskier’s ass with his palm. 

The smaller man pulls back to drink air in heady gasps, heavy lidded opens meeting Geralt’s. “I’m not fragile, dear heart.”

“No, you’re not.” With his free hand, he cups Jaskier’s face and draws him back until their foreheads touch. “You’re the strongest man I’ve ever known.” He feels the skin warm under his fingertips and smiles. 

“You’re growing soft, Geralt.”

“Only for you.” Before Jaskier can protest, Geralt kisses him again and draws them flush together. 

Despite Geralt’s best efforts, the kissing doesn’t remain slow. Jaskier nips at his lips again and again, fingers curling into his biceps as he seeks some sort of leverage. When he rolls his hips, Geralt drops his thighs open and Jaskier falls easily between them. Their clothed cocks brush together and Geralt slides his hand between them, cupping Jaskier’s bulge. He rubs his thumb from root to tip, swallowing Jaskier’s beautiful groans. The fabric dampens between them and he snaps his hips up, burying his own noises against the skin of Jaskier’s throat. The bard keens in response, nails pressing in harder, and it’s not nearly enough. 

“Hold on,” he murmurs before delivering a bite to the delicate skin. It reddens instantly and he sucks at the new mark, teasing it between his teeth while stroking his hand along Jaskier’s length. A hand buries itself in his hair and he tightens his thighs around the bard, rolling them in one swift motion. One of the pillows tumbles to the floor and the sheets tangle further around his waist, but he pays it little mind. Right now, all that matters is the warm body squirming beneath his own.

“Geralt, fuck.” Jaskier tries to shift his hips, but Geralt has the advantage. Pressing an openmouthed kiss to his throat, Geralt lifts himself up to admire the breathless figure beneath him. He’s struck by those gorgeous blue eyes, darkened with lust, and the soft pink tongue that’s currently peeking from the corner of his lips. They’re not nearly swollen enough and Geralt claims them again, biting and licking to claim desperate noise after desperate noise from the man he loves. Jaskier’s hands slip from his arms and push insistently at his chest, forcing him off as he comes back to his senses.

“Clothes. Off.” The bard demands. “Oil. _Now,_ dear heart.” He shimmies out from beneath Geralt and the Witcher lets him, removing himself to do as told. When he gets the small vial from the table next to his bed, Jaskier fixes the sheets so that he can stretch himself out on top of him. “I want you to make love to me,” he declares as Geralt settles between his legs.

“Haven’t I before?” Geralt asks, uncorking the vial and coating his fingers.

“Not the way I deserve to be loved! I want it slow, Geralt. We don’t have to fuck like rabbits for once, chasing the sweet high of our release.” 

“I’ll do it if you promise to never say that again.” Geralt deadpants.

“Oi! I’m a poet, you know. I have rights and-” His protests are swallowed by Geralt and he melts, wrapping his arms around the Witcher’s neck. Keeping him occupied, he focuses on corking the oil again and dropping the vial down beside them. He plants one hand against the bed next to Jaskier’s head and the other trails down his chest, drawing his body up in an arch as he goes. Carefully going around his cock, he finds Jaskier’s hole and circles his finger twice around the rim before pressing inside.

 _“Geralt,”_ Jaskier sighs against his lips. With a soft chuckle, he presses deeper and coaxes new noises from his lover. He works his finger to the second knuckle and then draws it out, steadily pumping in and out until Jaskier is loose enough for more. With the second finger, there’s a bit more resistance and Jaskier whimpers, but he pushes back against them after a moment and his greedy hole swallows Geralt’s fingers. He twists them slowly, adjusting the angle that his wrist is at, and brushes them perfectly where Jaskier needs them to be.

“FUCK!” He cries, breaking from Geralt’s mouth and arching up until their chests press together. With a satisfied smirk, Geralt repeats the motion twice more until Jaskier begs for his cock. He writhes back on his fingers, steadily fucking himself, and Geralt can’t imagine a more beautiful sight. He lowers his lips down and presses them to Jaskier’s forehead, stretching him until he can fit a third finger. It’s easy from there, showering his beloved bard in kisses and sweet murmurs until he’s sobbing for more. As Geralt pulls his fingers free, he sits upright and reaches for more oil.

“Hurry up,” Jaskier whines, digging a heel into his spine. “I am going to die if you don’t fill me at once, Geralt. Wouldn’t that make for a tragic song?”

“If you start to sing, I won’t do this.” He warns, stroking his cock and spreading the oil with care. 

“My lips are sealed. For the first time in my life, wouldn’t you-” Before Jaskier can finish his statement, Geralt slides into him in one thrust. He seats himself, shifting his thighs further apart so that Jaskier’s limbs have a place to rest.

“I rather like seeing you speechless, bard.” With a low chuckle, Geralt closes the distance between their faces and brushes a dry kiss to his mouth. “When you’re ready.” He says patiently, settling a hand on Jaskier’s waist.

“Love me, Geralt.” It’s not quite the answer he’d expected, but it doesn’t surprise him. Smiling fondly, he takes Jaskier’s mouth in a soft kiss and rolls his hips. A whimper falls heavily on his tongue and he drinks it down, memorizing it the way he does everything when it comes to Jaskier. He thrusts shallowly, keeping his movements slow and focused, but each try drives his cock to that same sweet spot. Jaskier curses and cries into his mouth, shoving a hand down between them to stroke himself as Geralt fucks into him. He covers Jaskier’s fingers with his own and slows his pace, pulling back to look into those lovely blue eyes. They’re wet with tears that he kisses away. 

“Come for me, Jaskier.” He murmurs, lowering his lips to brush along his throat. He tenderly kisses the red mark he’s left there, speeding his hand between them as he drags out his next thrust. With a choked cry, Jaskier’s release spills over their hands and paints his chest and stomach. He clenches around Geralt and it takes another two, three, four thrusts and he’s emptying himself into his bard. He catches himself before he can collapse, carefully slipping his softening cock from Jaskier. Whimpers answer him and he kisses his forehead, laying down on his side and cradling the spent man against his chest.

“Fuck, that was perfect.” Jaskier sighs against his collarbone. Geralt hums in agreement, closing his eyes. He knows they can’t stay like this, but holding Jaskier for a few moments longer feels like the right thing to do.

-

“I’m tired, Jaskier.” He looks up from his journal to find Ciri pouting at him, laying on her stomach across her bed. She’s kicking her ankles behind her, little feet hitting the bed in rhythmic taps.

“Vesemir said you could practice with your sword as soon as you finished your studies.” He says, nodding to the book open before her. She looks down in disinterest, her nose scrunching up.

“I can just learn all of this on the road with Geralt, just like you did. I don’t understand why we had to leave us behind. I can fight!” She declares. Jaskier nods, knowing better than to argue. In just a few weeks of training with the Witcher’s, Ciri has become a force to be reckoned with. She’s cocky, as all children are, and Vesemir never hesitates to knock her firmly on her butt and right back into place. 

“Because he wanted to spend time with Eskel, I’d imagine. Besides, this isn’t even a long hunt. They said they’d be back in time for dinner. And when they are, you can impress them with your newfound knowledge over a bowl of stew. Doesn’t that sound lovely?” He asks, trying to persuade her. Despite her age, she’s clever enough to realize when she’s being manipulated and Jaskier treads the line with great care. 

“Or we could tell Vesemir that I’m done and you can join him and Lambert in making potions. I can read before bed,” she protests.

“Vesemir will ask you questions over dinner. He knows when you’re lying, don’t you forget.” Leaning over from his chair, he lightly taps her on the nose and grins. “Besides, I’ve almost finished this new tune. If you catch up on your reading, I might be convinced to play it for you.” He adds with a wink. Her eyes light up at once and she grabs the book without another word, eyes flying across the page. Pleased with himself, Jaskier returns to his journal and focuses on the next line. It’s a new ballad, a slow tune that grows faster and faster until the words all blur together. 

He can’t remember the last time he’d written something so quickly. Perhaps his heartbreaking melody about Yennefer and Geralt, but it’s been so long since he’d written that. Nearly a year and a half prior. It’s hard to believe that he’s been back in Geralt’s life for a few months now. Being a captive chained to a tree feels like a lifetime ago. He knows that he’s changed over time, but it feels insignificant to the differences in Geralt. The man that he loves shows him every single day that he cares for him in return, revealing his heart in small but noticeable ways.

Here, within the Witcher’s Keep, Geralt smiles freely and makes jokes and laughs. Jaskier wants to bottle up the sound for a rainy day and use it to coax the sun to come back out. There’s a spark of mischief that he’s never seen before, most often used with Ciri. She huffs and stomps her feet each time he tricks her, but there’s a brightness to her smile that makes Jaskier believe that she’s starting to heal from her trauma. They all have deep losses behind them, none so much as her, but he rests easier knowing that she can still smile and laugh. When Geralt goes into town, he returns with small gifts for each of them. Jaskier usually receives something flashy, or a treat that he can enjoy with his dinner. Ciri receives small figurines that she has decorated her room with, creating a space all her own. Geralt goes above and beyond for the two of them and Jaskier only hopes that he’s returning it just the same.

“I’m finished!” The book slams shut and Ciri sits up, watching him with captive eyes. “Play it for me, Jas?”

“As you wish, my dear.” He bows his head and balances his journal on one knee, resting his lute on the other. It takes a few adjustments to get the tune just right, but Ciri claps along in delight and he lets himself be swept away with her joy. 

When the time for supper comes to pass, Jaskier tries to quell the growing pit of worry growing in his stomach. Vesemir and Lambert help keep the conversation clear of Geralt, trading stories of hunts from their past. Jaskier has heard the story before, something from another bard, but it sounds entirely different coming from these two. The bard he’d watched perform had cursed the names of the Witcher’s, blaming them for not stopping their death toll from rising. It was then that Jaskier had vowed to never speak ill of the monster hunters, for they were sacrificing it all to do a thankless job. Ciri doesn’t seem nearly as captivated as she usually is and he presses their knees together beneath the table, prodding her to be a touch more alert.

“Don’t worry,” he says as they retire for the evening and head for their tower, “Geralt is probably camping for the night or staying in town. It snowed heavily earlier, remember?” He says, patting the top of her head.

“Something is _wrong,_ Jaskier. Can’t you feel it?” Before he can answer, the wind in front of them shifts and his skin prickles. Ciri shrinks inside his side and they both step back, shielding their eyes as a portal opens before them. Peeking through his fingers, Jaskier watches in breathless horror as Yennefer stumbles through the portal, supporting Geralt. Behind her comes an unfamiliar man, holding Eskel up around the waist as they make it through the portal. It disappears with a flick of Yennefer’s wrist and she drops to her knees, Geralt going down with her.

“Are you just going to stand there or are you going to make yourself useful, bard?” She snaps. Pushing Ciri behind him, Jaskier drops to his knees and frantically tries to understand where Geralt is injured. When his beloved lifts his head, he takes notice of the hilt buried deep in his chest and feels his world tilt on its axis.

“Vesemir! Help!” He cries, breath coming in shallow gasps. “Geralt, stay with me. For the love of the gods, fucking stay with me.” He begs, cupping pale cheeks between his fingers. He hears someone saying his name and then he’s being pulled back by his shoulders, but his vision starts to spot.

“Jaskier, I need you to breathe.” Lambert murmurs in his ear. “I need your help stitching him back up, you understand? Go fetch a bowl of clean water and plenty of rags, bring them straight to the dining hall.” He says, shaking Jaskier until he looks at him. “Are you with me or not?” He growls.

“Y-Yes.” Swallowing hard, Jaskier tries to clear his head and gasps for air. “Lambert-”

“Jaskier. Go. Please,” he begs before giving him a hard shove in the right direction. He forces his feet to pick up one after another and stumbles toward the kitchen to get what is needed. It feels like hours have passed when he joins Lambert in the dining hall, but he’s got Geralt spread across the table and has cut his shirt away. There’s a dagger fully embedded in Geralt’s chest, just shy of his heart, and it makes Jaskier ill. He sets everything down with shaking hands and looks away for a moment, tears brimming in his eyes.

“All right, Jaskier. I need you to plug his wound as soon as I pull this out. Keep the pressure steady.” Lambert warns. Before he can protest, the Witcher rips it out and he scrambles to press a cloth to the wound. Blood spills freely from it, soaking the cloth and slipping like syrup through his fingers. He gags, turning his head to the side and pressing down with all his might. The muscles quiver beneath his touch and Geralt lets out a bellow, surging upright. Just as Jaskier whips his head back, Lambert has struck Geralt in the jaw and rendered him unconscious.

“Better this way,” he says by way of explanation. “We’re going to need to clean it out and then I’ll have to stitch him back up. This won’t be easy to watch,” he warns.

“Just save him,” Jaskier pleads brokenly. He does as he’s told when it comes to cleaning the wound, working as quickly as his unsteady hands will allow. When Lambert begins to stitch the flesh back together, he sags onto the bench and clasps one of Geralt’s icy hands. “You can’t leave me, dear heart. You promised that you wouldn’t. I need you. Ciri needs you. I wrote you a ballad, you stupid oaf. I wanted to play it for you. Who else will tell me that my voice is like a filling-less pie?”

“He’ll wake up, Jaskier. I’ve seen the poor bastard get hit with much worse. This is just another scar for him.” Lambert tries to cheer him up, but Jaskier can hear the doubt creeping into his tone. It makes his stomach roll and his shoulders shake, a sob tearing from his lips. He bows his head, uncaring of the blood soaking his hand and now Geralt’s, and presses his forehead to them. 

When Lambert is finally done, he leaves to get a potion and Jaskier finally takes a look around the room. They aren’t as alone as he’d thought. Vesemir and Ciri are with Eskel, Yennefer holding her hands over his body. The unknown man isn’t with them, nor is Coën. He doesn’t dwell on that. When Geralt is out of the woods, he’ll get the details. And he’ll write a song so beautiful that his stupid Witcher will cry beautiful tears and praise him endlessly. He’d better after putting Jaskier through this.

Yennefer finally looks up, lowering her hands as she makes eye contact with Jaskier. He ducks his head, shoulders tensing as he listens to her approach. To his surprise and relief, she doesn’t try to comfort him or treat him like some kind of child. Instead, she focuses on trying to heal Geralt and he’s all the more grateful. What he doesn’t expect is for her to sit when she’s finished and sag against his side, setting her head on his shoulder.

“He’ll wake up in no time, bard.” She promises softly.

“What happened?” He asks, leaning his head against hers. 

“An ambush by soldiers. There was a small encampment south of the Keep and Geralt and Eskel were captured. Aiden and I were on our way here when we heard the noises.” She says. Jaskier doesn’t believe a word of it, but he can’t exactly protest. He knows that Geralt is far too careful to be caught easily. When his Witcher wakes, he’ll get the full story. 

“Who is Aiden?” He asks, knitting his brows together. The name rings a bell in the dusty corners of his mind, but he can’t seem to shake the cobwebs off just yet.

“Another Witcher. He’s from a different school. From what he’s told me, he and Lambert are quite close. Some would say as close as you and Geralt.” Brushing her fingers along the top of his back, she lifts her head and looks at him. He’s too tired to meet those terrifying violet eyes, but he sees the corner of her lips twist down. “Are you ever going to forgive me, bard? I didn’t _know_ that you loved him when I slept with him.”

“I’m sorry, but _what?!”_ Jaskier squawks, his cheeks flushing with color. 

“You heard me, Jaskier. If you’re going to keep hating me for that, then you need to grow up. I’m not going to take him away from you. Even tying our fates together can’t change that. He wants _you_ and for that reason alone, he’s going to be okay.” She says. 

“I don’t hate you.” He mutters when his mouth finally catches up with his brain. 

“Tell me you weren’t jealous and that you didn’t write a ballad painting me as a villain for the masses because I was tempting him away from you.”

“That’s…” Sighing, he nods to concede the point. “But we’re past that. You saved my life. And his. Actually, you’ve saved me twice now. I don’t like it.” He admits. It’s not just that she’s Yennefer and therefore his greatest enemy. He doesn’t like being indebted to anyone. Too many have used that to their advantage and it twists his stomach to dwell on it for too long. 

“If you treat me as an equal and a friend, I’ll consider our debts squared. You won’t have to worry about paying me back. Do we have a deal?” She raises a brow at him and he nods, searching her face. There’s nothing but honesty there. 

“Deal.” He whispers. Fingers squeeze around his own and he startles, eyes flying to Geralt. The Witcher’s steady gaze meets his own, his lips pressed white in pain. 

“Don’t make deals on my behalf,” he murmurs. 

“You great oaf. You two deserve each other.” Yennefer says, rolling her eyes. “We weren’t making a deal about you. Contrary to your belief, my world does not revolve around you nor does Jaskier’s. Now, tell us how you’re feeling.”

“Like I was stabbed,” he says bluntly. 

“You should rest, dear heart.” Jaskier rubs his thumb along the back of Geralt’s hand. “I’ll stay right here and get you cleaned up. But you must rest.” He tells him firmly. 

“Witcher’s rest when they are dead,” Geralt answers in a murmur. Jaskier’s eyes twitches. He wants to smack the shit out of this giant bastard, but he can’t. At least not until he’s properly healed. With this kind of wound, it will be a few days before the pain begins to subside. Jaskier doesn’t mind. He likes the idea of playing nursemaid in Geralt’s room and taking care of his beloved. Even if he is an idiot. “Eskel?” He asks after a moment, turning his head slowly. 

“He’s fine. A lot better off than you. Stitched up the back of his leg and I think he’ll keep it. You, on the other hand, are lucky to be alive. Do you have any idea how terrible it looked when I brought you here?” Yennefer asks. Lips twitching in faint amusement, Geralt shakes his head. He immediately groans and goes still, eyes fluttering shut. 

“I thought you were going to die. So, you arrogant jackass, you’re going to rest.” Jaskier’s warns, managing to keep his voice steady. Tired yellow eyes open and Geralt’s lips quirk slightly. 

“Whatever you say.”

-

“I’m not an infant, Jaskier.” Geralt sighs as he’s forced to sit up, the pillows behind him being fluffed. It’s been four days since his injury and he’s finally been allowed to move up to his bedroom. Jaskier hasn’t stopped fussing over him since he got up from the table and it’s starting to wear thin on his nerves. 

“No, but isn’t this more comfortable?” Jaskier takes his shoulder in hand and guides him back down against the sheets. The angle isn’t much different, but he does breathe a little easier. Huh. Maybe the bard _does_ know a thing or two. 

“Sit down, you’re giving me a headache.” He grumbles. With a wounded look, Jaskier complies and folds his hands in his lap. “Whatever is on your mind, all you have to do is ask.” He says when Jaskier’s leg starts to bounce. 

“And when, my darling Witcher, has that ever proven to be true when it comes to you?” Jaskier mutters to himself. 

“Jaskier.”

“Will you tell me what really happened?” Anxious blue eyes lift up and Geralt studies them with care. “Yennefer lied to me.”

“How do you know that?” He raises a brow. 

“Because it isn’t like you. She told me that the soldiers ambushed you, but I know you and Eskel would have heard them miles off. What really happened, Geralt?” Jaskier repeats himself and this time, he has to look away. There’s no sense in lying to the bard. Jaskier reads through him better than anyone save Vesemir. 

“Eskel and I were on our way back from town when we heard them,” Geralt says quietly. Before he can open his mouth to continue, Jaskier takes him by the hand and squeezes softly in reassurance. “They came in from the west, it seems.”

“Avoiding town?” Jaskier guesses. 

“Most likely thought word would be sent to the Keep. When we were within range, we realized there were a few dozen. We couldn’t risk them attacking us, so we decided to take them out. And we did. One by one, we cut down the perimeter guard without a sound. And then I heard them talking around the campfire.” Geralt pauses again, lowering his gaze to their joined hands. Jaskier deserves to know the truth, but that doesn’t make it easy. As much as he wants to keep the past firmly where it belongs, he can’t avoid this. 

“Geralt, whatever it is, you know you can tell me.” Jaskier whispers. 

“They were talking about what they would do once they got to the Keep. How they’d slaughter my brothers and Ciri would be theirs. And one of them mentioned you. They were going to string you up and make sure you regretted the day you’d ever started to sing my praises.” His lips twist in disgust. It’s the light version of what he’d heard, but Jaskier doesn’t need the gory details. He’s suffered enough at the hands of the soldiers. This is just one less nightmare to give him. 

“And you heroically threw yourself at those monsters to kill anyone who dared sully my good name?” Jaskier is teasing, but there’s something soft in his voice that makes Geralt look more closely. It dawns on him that perhaps no one has ever defended Jaskier. He’s usually the one in the wrong, but he’s had every manner of insult thrown at him and carries on with a smile. As far back as he can remember, he’s never tried to stand up for his friend. The opposite was usually true. He’d snorted and usually agreed with whatever harsh comment had been made. It didn’t sit right with him. 

“I couldn’t bear the idea of them getting their hands on you. But one of them got the upper hand. When I turned to strike him down, he buried his blade in my skin. That’s when Yennefer arrived. She incinerated the men who were left and next thing I remember, we were here.” 

“If you ever do anything like that again, I will kill you myself and bury you and find a necromancer and do it all over again.” Jaskier threatens, his voice shaking. “I’m not worth your _life,_ Geralt.”

“I say that you are.” Tears swim in Jaskier’s eyes and Geralt lifts their hands, drawing them up over his chest. “I’m not dying, bard. If I died today, what would you have to sing about?”

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” Wiping his wrist across his eyes, Jaskier shifts and lays down on his side, pressing into him. “I can’t lose you, Geralt. Not now.”

“You won’t.” Geralt murmurs. “But if I had to do it again, I would. I made a vow to you that those soldiers would never touch you again and I meant it.”

“More will come. They won’t stop coming because of Ciri,” Jaskier sniffles. 

“Let the armies come knocking. We will hold them off.” It’s not a promise he can keep, but it’s enough to make Jaskier smile. He’ll do whatever is necessary to protect his bard. Ciri, too. 

-

“We’re going to be late,” Jaskier sighs as he uncrosses his arms from around his chest. “Vesemir won’t be pleased with you. You know he’s cross when you’re late to lessons.” He reminds for what feels like the millionth time. Is this what parenting is? It’s exhausting. 

“You’re the one who said I needed to memorize those passages, not him.” Ciri quips. Jaskier can’t argue with that. He’s been enticing her to get further and further ahead in her readings through song and he’s shocked that it’s actually working so well. But now, as a result, she’s going to be late for potions. Vesemir is going to string them both up by their ears and lecture them all the way into next week. 

“Don’t throw me to the wolves, Ciri!”

“You got yourself there just fine.” She grins at him and he’s struck by just how young she is. With a soft smile in return, he shifts his attention to the path and lets his mind wander. It’s been a while since it’s just been him and Ciri. Lately, it’s either been the pair of them with Geralt or he’s been alone with his Witcher, up to no good. Moments like these are fleeting. But despite everything, Ciri is happy and smiling and makes jokes around the dinner table. She’s resilient for her age and even though she’s not having the childhood that anyone imagined for her, she seems to be adjusting just fine. He’s envious of that. 

Ciri is the type of person that he used to be, he thinks. She fits into any crowd almost naturally at this point and she’s got a wicked sharp tongue when she needs it. Jaskier knows that he’s softened since his capture. He’s less sure of himself and he knows that he needs to start practicing with his lute again. Perhaps he can convince Geralt to take a few nights off with him and they can go earn some more coin from the villagers. He needs a crowd to boost his confidence and remind him that he hasn’t lost his touch. He knows the other Witchers don’t mind hearing him play, but he can never tell if they’re being polite or are genuinely impressed. 

“You’ve got that look again,” Ciri says after a beat as they near the building where Vesemir awaits. 

“And what look is that, my dearest Cirilla?” He asks, raising a brow down at her. 

“That look that Geralt says means you’re thinking too hard. You used to get it all the time during lessons with my grandmother. You’d sit at the window and stare and you seemed sad. Is it about Geralt? Yennefer tells me that he’s going to be fine.” She assures, slipping her hand into his and squeezing gently. 

“I’m sure that he will be. Are you enjoying spending time with Yennefer?” He asks, rubbing his thumb against her wrist. Her fingers tighten around his and he suppresses a smile. Out of everyone, he supposes that she and Geralt know his nervous habits better than anyone.

“She’s funny,” Ciri tells him. “She’s told me stories about the academy where she was taught and how she used to struggle with basic magic. She said that she could do advanced things more easily, but she won’t teach me any. Not until I have more training under my belt,” she sighs. “All anyone talks about here is training me.”

“It’s hard, isn’t it?” Jaskier pauses outside the door when he hears a few low murmurs from within and turns to face her. “I’ve got a task for you today, my darling.”

“Is it more training?” She eyes him skeptically and he chuckles, shaking his head and lightly tapping her on the nose.

“No, my sweet, it’s better than that.” He leans down to whisper in her ear. When he pulls back, her eyes are bright with excitement.

“I can do that!” She exclaims, thrusting her chin high.

“I know you can. Come on, then. Best not keep Master Vesemir waiting any longer.” Winking, he lets go of her hand and ushers her into the room. Coën and Eskel are sitting at one of the tables, the latter with his leg propped up along the bench. Vesemir is standing by his usual table, ingredients and a journal laid out in front of him.

“Princess Cirilla!” Eskel greets, raising a hand in greeting. “I’d stand and bow, but…” He trails off and gestures to his bandaged leg. 

“How are you doing, Eskel?” Jaskier greets, propping his hands on his hips. “I see you’re finally up and moving about.”

“Better than Geralt, I hear. He still complaining about being in bed?” The Witcher asks.

“I don’t see why he’s complaining so much,” Lambert chuckles from behind Jaskier and he does his best not to jump out of his skin. From the coughs that hide laughter around him, he knows his fast beating heart has given him away. “I’d love a night with our little lark looking after me.”

“Don’t you have your own lover now?” Jaskier fires back, cheeks flush with color. “Aiden, isn’t it?” Lambert splutters and he looks back, grinning. Good. He deserves a taste or two of his own medicine. “Sorry for the delay, we lost track of time. Do you need me today?” He asks Vesemir.

“Not today, Jaskier. I’ve asked Yennefer to go and gather some ingredients in the wilds. You should join her. It will be good to get your mind off of things.” Opening the book in front of him, Vesemir turns and nods at Ciri. “Come on, girl. It’s time to begin your studies.”

“Be good today, Ciri. And don’t forget.” Jaskier winks and turns on his heels, striding from the room. He’s joined by Lambert a moment later and cocks his head at the Witcher. “Aren’t you staying to help teach Ciri?”

“I’ve got today off.” Lambert grins. “I thought Aiden and I could join you convincing Yennefer about your plan. It’s a bit unusual, isn’t it? Do you really think anyone else will go for it?” He asks.

“How did you…” Trailing off, Jaskier sighs. Right. He can’t believe he’d forgotten about their enhanced hearing in that moment. Ah, well. Ciri will still have fun trying to convince the group of Jaskier’s plans. “Will you and Aiden be joining?” He asks.

“It would be good to get out of the Keep for a bit and not hunt down monsters for a change. Besides, I’ve always wanted to see a bard in his natural element.”

“You’ve never seen a bard before?” Jaskier raises his brow. He knows better. 

“I wouldn’t call anyone I’ve ever seen perform a proper bard. Not like you,” Lambert compliments. Jaskier doesn’t know what that means, but he smiles anyways. Lambert’s only heard him try to remember a tune or struggle through a new piece. He’s hardly worthy of his title. However, he’s going to win it back. He knows it.

“I thank you, good sir.” He says after a beat. Lambert gives him an odd look, but he brushes it aside. “How long have you and Aiden known each other?” He asks.

“A while,” Lambert hums. He seems to contemplate his answer, casting his gaze somewhere else while mulling it over. “We met on a job. A wraith was destroying a farmer’s harvest and Aiden and I arrived on the same day to take it. The farmer said he’d pay us both the same if we took care of the problem. So we did. And for some reason that escapes me, the bastard stuck around. When we eventually went our separate ways, we’d inevitably crossed paths again in a matter of weeks.”

“Sounds like fate,” Jaskier murmurs. “How long until you two became like me and Geralt?” 

“The second year of our travels, he got drunk and kissed me in our room. You can imagine how things went from there.” Lambert smirks and waggles his brows. 

“But he’s not from here, is he? He’s from a different school?”

“He’s a Cat. We don’t often see people outside of our own, but Vesemir always welcomes any travelers to come and stay here during the winter. This will be Aiden’s third with us. As attached as he is to me, he can’t seem to stay away from hunting for long. He gets restless,” Lambert says. Nodding, Jaskier pauses as they reach the tower where Yennefer is residing and steels himself. They climb the stairwell in silence after that until they reach the top. Before he can raise a hand to knock, the door swings open.

“Are you ready?” Yennefer rises from her bed, a fur coat draped around her shoulders. “I thought I might turn to stone waiting on you to arrive.”

“And you wonder why I don’t like you,” Jaskier mutters to himself. Lambert snorts at that, his grin widening as he approaches Yennefer and offers an arm.

“Apologies, milady. Hope we haven’t kept you waiting for too long. I was regaling our bard with the story of how I met Aiden. Truly fascinating, you see. He’s even going to write a ballad about it.”

“I said no such thing!” Jaskier squawks, jaw dropping. “Lambert!”

“I look forward to hearing it. Now, let’s go before it gets too dark.” Yennefer says, brushing her hair back across her shoulder. 

“Why are we going to get herbs with you?” Jaskier asks, turning to head back down the stairs. “I’m not exactly the most equipped to protect you,” he adds.

“Then you can be my pack mule while Aiden and Lambert fight off any monsters we come across.” Yennefer says. Jaskier knows that she’s rolling her eyes. “If I’d known that you were going to complain before we even left the Keep, I might not have asked Vesemir to let you be mine for the day.”

“You-I’m sorry, I think I’m having a spell and didn’t hear you properly. You _wanted_ me to accompany you?” He glances back and nearly misses the next step. Lambert and Yennefer both raise a brow and he blushes, turning back around. “Why me? We aren’t exactly friends.”

“I’m well aware of that, Jaskier. However, I think it would do us a world of good if we could stop being petty toward each other. If not for Geralt’s sake, then for Ciri.” Yennefer sighs. “She admires you a great deal, bard. Did you know that she threatened me shortly after my arrival here?”

“She did?” 

“She said that if I were to interfere in your happiness or Geralt’s, she would spend her days finding ways to bring me pain. She cares deeply about the two of you. I assured her that I wasn’t a threat to either of you. And I’m not, in case you still didn’t believe me.” 

“I do.” Jaskier tells her. He’s still having a bit of a hard time wrapping his head around it, but he knows that she’s being honest. She’s not going to get in the way. He just hopes that destiny doesn’t decide to fuck him over for once. He’s rather tired of life knocking him on his ass. But he also knows that ultimately, Yennefer and Geralt will always have something between them that he won’t. He’s not as easily able to look past that. “What do you need herbs for?” He asks. As they walk past the stables, a head of brown hair pops out and Aiden smiles at them.

“Are we ready?” He asks, scratching the back of his neck. 

“Of course.” Lambert stops in his tracks and offers Yennefer what Jaskier assumes is an attempt at an apologetic smile. “Forgive me, but I think this is where we must part.” He lifts her hand and kisses it before stepping back. Yennefer nods and looks to Jaskier, stepping closer and offering her arm out to him.

“Don’t look at me like I’m going to bite it off,” she tells him. “I’m not going to hurt you. How many times do I have to tell you that?” She sighs softly and he can see the genuine confusion in her eyes. 

“It’s not that.” He knows that she deserves a better answer than that, but he doesn’t want to give it just yet. Not when Geralt is still so close to them. “Give me a few minutes?” He asks softly. She nods, studying him to the point where he feels like he’s been seen through and exposed to the rest of the world.

“As you wish,” she says.

They journey along the path for a while, the Keep disappearing behind them as they go. Eventually, Yennefer guides them off the path and toward a creek where there are still a few rare plants in bloom along the snowy banks. As she bends to start collecting them, Jaskier brushes snow from the top of a rock and sits down on it. Lambert and Aiden clear themselves off an area to sit and Yennefer spreads her fur out so they can share it. With the three of them sitting at his feet, Jaskier almost feels like a storyteller again.

“This does not leave your ears to your lips,” he tells them. “Geralt doesn’t know.”

“Oh boy,” Lambert sighs. “I don’t like keeping secrets from him.” 

“Hold your tongue and let the bard speak.” Yennefer squeezes his knee and looks up to Jaskier, nodding for him to begin. 

“It’s not a secret, not really. We just...haven’t discussed it.” He tells them. “I just don’t know how to tell him. He knows enough.” Geralt knows the basics of Jaskier’s capture. The thought of it makes the skin on the back of his neck stand up and he has to take a deep breath to steady himself. “I was in Cintra when it fell.” He begins. Aiden is the only one to show a reaction and he rolls his eyes. “Honestly, can Geralt keep nothing to himself?” He asks.

“It was when he came to me and asked if I would heal you. He said that I should treat you with kindness after your ordeal.” Yennefer answers.

“Vesemir told all of us before you arrived. He didn’t want us talking about the war and upsetting you or Ciri,” Lambert adds. That’s comforting to know. Jaskier’s respect for the eldest Witcher grows deeper with each bit of knowledge gained.

“Well, I can’t say I’m too surprised. But it was humiliating when the soldiers grabbed me. I don’t suppose Geralt told you that I was in the bath?” This gets a little more surprise, wide eyes and lips turned in scowls. “They grabbed me while I was bathing. I knew they were close to breaching the castle, but they’d been at it for hours with no luck. I told myself that it would be fine and everyone else seemed to be going about business as normal. Imagine my surprise when the door burst open and I only had a bar of soap to defend myself.” He presses his fingers down into his knees and takes another deep breath.

“They were going to kill me. One had an arrow at the ready and his superior officer held him off. He said he recognized me, that I was the bard of Geralt of Rivia. And half the bloody kingdom knew about Geralt and Ciri’s connection. They captured me and once they realized Ciri was long gone, they held onto me as a bargaining chip. But that wasn’t the worst part, not really. They played games with me.”

“Jaskier. They didn’t…” Yennefer trails off and he recognizes the pity in her eyes.

“No. Not like that. But they let me go twice. The first time, I nearly froze to death on my own before they caught up to me. The second time, I reached an encampment of refugees and begged for help. They handed me over without second thought, begging the soldiers to leave them be. Their camp burned to the ground. I didn’t trust anyone after that,” Jaskier says. It feels odd to say aloud. He knows that he’s a lot less trusting these days, but he’s never once stopped to reflect for long on why that is. He supposes it’s because he’s always known, deep down. 

“Is that why you stopped playing your lute?” Lambert asks, raising a brow at him.

“Not entirely. But I didn’t want to be in front of crowds for a while. Geralt and Ciri were the only ones I trusted. And the one time I put my faith in someone, they tried to get me killed by drowners. So you can understand why I’m a little rougher around my edges.” Jaskier smiles bitterly.

“But you aren’t. You’re more cautious, that’s true, but you haven’t changed into someone unrecognizable. You’re still the bard who loves with his entire being, annoys everyone who meets you, and still makes an impact.” Yennefer says gently. He feels his eyes widen at that and she rolls her eyes. “One day, bard, you’re going to believe the things I tell you. I won’t say it twice.”

“I’m trying. It’s not easy,” Jaskier says as he looks around at all of them. “But that’s what I wanted to talk with you about. I’d like to face a crowd again and master this silly little fear of mine. I have a plan, you see, and it goes a little something like this…”

-

It’s another week before Geralt is properly healed. Jaskier continues to fuss over him, but he finds that his fears are put to rest when Geralt pins him to the mattress and has his way with him. Jaskier rather likes the way that his Witcher quiets him with his skilled tongue and a heavy thigh between his legs. He’s tried to say as much, but Geralt always gives him such a look that he immediately forgets everything that he wants to say. 

When the end of the week approaches and Ciri finishes her lessons, she comes running to their room and doesn’t bother knocking. Jaskier thanks all of the gods above that he and Geralt are decent for the first time of the day. He carefully sets down his lute and claps his hands together, beaming at Ciri. “How did your lessons go today?” He asks. 

“They were fantastic! Vesemir says I’m a better pupil than the others when they were my age.” She beams with pride and Jaskier feels his heart swell. “He sent everyone to get ready and asked me to come and get you. Are you ready to go?” She’s practically vibrating out of her body with excitement and Jaskier wonders what sweet concoction Coën has snuck her this time.

“Almost. I’ll finish polishing and then we are off to town for the evening,” he tells her. “Why don’t you go and get changed? I’ve cleaned your dress that you wanted to wear.” Her eyes light up and she’s gone without another word, dashing for the stairs. Chuckling, Jaskier reaches for his lute again to put the final touches on it. Geralt hands him the case without a word and he secures it inside, sighing softly as the latch clicks shut.

“Do you think I’m going to make a terrible mistake by doing this? What if I’m not ready?” He asks, drumming his fingers against the cool wood.

“There’s no one more prepared than you. This was your idea,” Geralt reminds. Jaskier knows what he’s saying. If Jaskier wants to back down, no one will question his decision. But he wants to do this. He misses playing in front of a crowd and he needs to practice his craft. Whenever he’s been in the middle of a room with eyes on him, he’s always felt like he’s at true peace. He’s not going to let the soldiers steal that away from him. It’s time to reclaim it.

“I know. Come on, dear heart. I don’t suppose the others will like it much if we keep them waiting.” With a sigh, Jaskier leans back and Geralt meets him with strong arms creeping around his waist.

“You’ll be fantastic, bard.” His Witcher murmurs softly against his ear. Smiling to himself, Jaskier tilts his head up and he’s rewarded with a soft kiss. Before either of them can get properly invested, Ciri’s footsteps sound on the stairs and she bursts into the room.

“You patched it up!” She cries. Jaskier looks at her, his heart warming as she grips the ends and spins herself in a circle. She’s a blur of soft greens and blues, a few yellow flowers woven into the hemline. “Oh Jas, I love it! Thank you, thank you!” He barely has time to set the case down before she’s launching herself into his arms, hugging him fiercely. 

“You’re most welcome, little lioness.” He kisses her hair and turns his face, smiling at Geralt. He’s watching them fondly, a bare smile forming at the corners of his lips. It’s enough, he tells himself. This is everything he wants and then some.

“Go on, scamp. Tell the others that we’ll be down in a moment.” Geralt says. Ciri grins and kisses Jaskier’s cheek before she lets go, hurrying back to the stairs.

“Be careful!” He calls after her, sighing as he hears her race down the stairs. “One day, she’s going to get injured.”

“She’s not the one who fell off a balcony.” Geralt reminds. Picking up a pillow, Jaskier swats him across the chest with it and laughs.

“And there’s the sense of humor I’ve been missing!” He gets to his feet and picks up his lute, securing the case across his back. “Well, let’s go! We mustn’t keep them waiting.” He makes it two steps before Geralt’s fingers snare him by the wrist and stop him cold. “Geralt?”

“Ciri’s not the only one who deserved a new outfit.” Releasing him, his Witcher crossed the room and knelt down in front of his chest. He pulls out what Jaskier deems to be the finest doublet in all the land and approaches the bed, holding it out. 

“Geralt,” he breathes, reaching out to touch it. The inside is lined with soft fur, but upon closer inspection he realizes that it’s cleverly hooked into the doublet and could be removed. As he marvels this fantastic creation, his eyes are drawn back to the gold and black doublet. It’s finely stitched together, better than anything he’s owned outside of his parent’s estate. “Geralt, how did you afford something like this?” He breathes, running his fingers along one of the stitches. 

“I saved coin, Jaskier.” Geralt says, offering to take his lute. He hands it over and hastily shrugs out of his brown doublet that he’s stitched back together a dozen times and stares down at the gold doublet. He’ll look every part the noble that he’s spent so many years trying to shed. “Do you like it?”

“It’s too much.” Jaskier swallows around the lump in his throat and pulls it on with great care. It’s a perfect fit. He runs his hands down the material to smooth it out and blinks back tears. “Geralt, I can’t accept something like this. How much did you have to pay for this?”

“That doesn’t matter, Jaskier. Tonight is important for you. I wanted you to look the part of a proper bard. My bard.” Geralt tells him, cupping his face between his hands. Tears spill over freely and Jaskier leans up, pressing their lips together. It’s barely a kiss because of the tears, but it’s perfect. 

“I love you,” he whispers when he pulls back. A smile twitches at the corner of Geralt’s lips and he touches their foreheads together.

“And I love you, Jaskier. As long as my heart still beats.” 

“I’m putting that in a ballad,” he warns with a sniffle. “I’m going to tell the entire world that Geralt of Rivia fell in love with his bard and he’s got the biggest heart anyone could ever have.”

“No one would believe it.” Geralt chuckles against his lips and presses another kiss to them. “You’re more than just a bard to me.”

“And what, pray tell, am I?” Jaskier asks, curling his fingers in the front of Geralt’s shirt.

“Everything I need.”

When they go into town and Jaskier steps in front of an audience for the first time in a year, he looks out at the family that he’s made. Coën and Eskel are sitting to the side, their smiles encouraging him. Lambert and Aiden are closer to the back, sending threatening looks at anyone who looks at the groups of Witchers the wrong way. There’s Vesemir, Yennefer, and Ciri sitting front row and center, the latter clapping in delight as he tunes his lute and prepares to play. His final glance drifts toward his right, where a white-haired man sits and guards Jaskier’s heart. Geralt doesn’t smile, but Jaskier knows that he’s happy.

This is home. It’s right where he belongs.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Witcher fic and I'm so happy to have released this into the world! I wrote 35k of it in two weeks, froze for a bit, and then got the wind back beneath my sails. I hope that you enjoy this journey. 
> 
> Also. This fic marks 1 million words posted for me! How cool is that? (I was determined to make this fic be the one that vaulted me over 1 million and I did it!)


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